


The Lost Son

by arabis



Series: Signature [6]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:14:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29115087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabis/pseuds/arabis
Summary: Set four years after the events ofSchism, Sam Witwicky has fully embraced his role as Autobot Ambassador to Earth. However, the unexpected arrival of an envoy from Cybertron threatens to destroy the tenuous peace garnered between Autobots and Decepticons.The Lost Sonwill explore themes of political intrigue, betrayal, and redemption as Sam travels to Cybertron... only to discover a terrible secret hidden there.
Relationships: Bumblebee/Sam Witwicky
Series: Signature [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560772
Comments: 602
Kudos: 181





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> "Plots, true or false, are necessary things,  
> To raise up commonwealths and ruin kings."
> 
> JOHN DRYDEN, Absalom and Achitophel

They arrived in New York State on Wednesday afternoon. The trip had been meticulously planned down to the last detail—Sam and his delegation bridged to the National Guard Base north of Syracuse, where they were greeted by their security detail. Agent Boynton had more gray in his hair than the last time Sam saw him, but the old battle-axe was just as sharp as ever. It wasn’t until he walked down the gangway that he learned Agent Simmons had been replaced by Agent Rodriguez, a Hispanic man with an easy smile.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ambassador.” Rodriguez said, extending his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you as well.” Sam replied, shaking his hand before gesturing to Carter, who came to stand by his side, “You know Dave Carter, Prime’s Chief of Staff.”

“Yes, of course.” Rodriguez replied, sticking out his hand again, “It’s good to finally meet you in person, Mr. Carter.”

“You as well.” Dave replied, switching his briefcase to his left hand in order to accept the handshake, “How’s Melinda?”

“She’s good, thanks.” Rodriguez said, a smile warming his face, “It’s kind of you to ask.”

Sam gestured next to Lennox and Kelley, who were standing a short distance away. “This is Will Lennox, Prime’s Chief Operations Officer, and this is Jason Kelley, my personal assistant.”

The three men exchanged salutations and handshakes, before Rodriguez swept his arm towards the vehicles that were parked at the far end of the hangar. “We received your travel itinerary this morning. We can leave whenever you're ready.”

“There’s been a last minute change.” Dave Carter said, pulling a manila folder from his briefcase and extending it towards him, “The Ambassador will be meeting with the Secretary-General after his speech at the General Assembly.”

Rodriguez accepted the folder, before flipping it open and scanning the contents. “That shouldn’t be a problem. We will notify the NYPD of the change.”

Carter gave a terse nod of acknowledgement, and then they made their way down the hangar. Bumblebee, Trailbreaker, Hound, and Jazz were parked next to a dark colored SUV with government-issued plates. Sam’s lips curved up in a smile at the sight of the yellow Camaro—it had been three days since they last saw each other. The Autobots had bridged over in advance to conduct their own security sweep. Red Alert had returned to Diego Garcia that morning, seemingly satisfied with the result.

Sam reached out, brushing against the winter-white glow that rested at the edge of his mind. Bumblebee pushed _affection_ and _welcome_ back at him in response.

The hangar was boxy in design, roughly as wide as it was long, and the sound of engines and machinery echoed around the enclosed space. There were several NEST soldiers stationed near the ground bridge, and four others standing at attention near the bi-fold doors on the opposite side of the building, but otherwise they were alone. As such, Sam let the soft, fond smile spread across his face as they approached the parked vehicles.

“Hello you.” He murmured, smoothing a hand over Bumblebee’s bonnet.

The Camaro popped open his doors by way of greeting, and Sam’s smile broadened into a grin as his mental presence took on a distinct edge of _impatience_.

“Bossy.” He teased, before turning to look at the others, “Kelley’s riding with me. What about you guys?”

Jazz rolled forward several inches, until his fender nudged the back of Carter’s knees. The Chief of Staff turned, giving the Pontiac Solstice a wry look. “I believe I’ve been spoken for.”

Lennox snorted, before glancing at the remaining alt modes. “Any takers?”

Hound’s headlights flashed brightly by way of answer, and then he popped open his driver’s side door in a clear invitation. Lennox gave the Jeep Wrangler a considerate look, before nodding in approval. “I hope you don’t mind if I catch some sleep. I’ve been up since oh-three-hundred.”

“Of course not, Major.” Hound replied cheerfully, “It’s a road trip. I’ve also brought snacks, if you wish to partake.”

Sam fought the smile that threatened to break across his face as Kelley made his way around to the passenger-side door. The former USMC lieutenant patted the Camaro’s yellow hood, before sliding into his seat.

“What route are we taking?” Sam asked, curiously.

Carter didn’t even need to check the itinerary. “We take the I-80 to Hoboken, before crossing over into Manhattan. It’ll be three or four hours, depending on the traffic.”

Sam felt a flush of excitement blossom in his chest. The purpose of the visit was strictly professional—he was giving a prepared statement to the United Nations General Assembly, attending a taping of the Late Show, and meeting with the newly appointed American Ambassador, but still, he was eagerly anticipating New York City. He had wanted to visit the glistening metropolis ever since he was a child.

“Great.” He replied, climbing into the driver’s seat, “I guess we should get going.”

Bumblebee pulled the door shut behind him as soon as he was settled. Sam twisted, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it across his chest. There was the sound of doors slamming and engines rolling over, and then they were accelerating towards the double-doors at the other end of the hangar. Jazz took point, followed by Trailbreaker and Bumblebee, while Hound and the security detail brought up the rear. The NEST soldiers standing at attention on either side of the entryway snapped off sharp salutes as they passed, earning an acknowledging _honk_ from Jazz in return.

Sam leaned back in his seat as they rolled into the early afternoon sunshine. The sky was a deep, clear blue from horizon to horizon. A glance at the dashboard revealed that the air temperature was 60 degrees Fahrenheit. It was mild, as far as east coast Octobers went, but it was downright chilly by Nevada’s standards. He mentally thanked Dave Carter for insisting that he bring an overcoat, even though he had had to dig it out of his closet.

The delegation made their way through the National Guard Base, before turning onto the road that would lead them to the highway. The city of Syracuse, New York was nestled in a low-lying valley, but it was surrounded by rolling hills that extended in every direction. They drove through the industrial area on the outskirts of the city, stopping at a series of traffic lights that turned red with annoying consistency, before navigating the on-ramp to the I-80. The speedometer crept higher as they merged with traffic until they were driving at sixty-five miles per hour.

“I have your speech if you’d like to go over it again.” Kelley said, interrupting the silence.

Sam glanced over to find the other man sitting with his attaché case in his lap. He resisted the urge to sigh, and instead, extended a hand towards him. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Kelley opened the dark leather satchel, pulling out a thick manila folder and handing it over. Sam accepted the papers, before settling back against his seat. He and Optimus had written the speech together, at Prime’s urging, so he knew it was all right. Still, the sight of the neat paragraphs of text caused a ribbon of anxiety to wind around his innards and _squeeze_. Sam had accompanied Optimus on diplomatic visits twice in the past, but never before had he been asked to deliver a speech. There was a lot riding on it, too—Prime was taking an official stance on China’s human rights abuses, and there would certainly be political backlash. As one of the world’s leading super powers, and the one closest to their borders, China’s reaction could have serious ramifications for Diego Garcia.

Sam wet his lips as his eyes roved over the speech. He had rehearsed it more times than he could count—so often that he almost knew it by memory, but now, less than twenty-four hours before he was to stand in front of the whole world and condemn China’s actions towards the Uyghur Muslims and the city of Hong Kong, the words seemed clumsy and feeble.

 _//You're thinking too much.//_ Bumblebee admonished, pressing _reassurance_ across their bond-space. _//The speech is concise and well argued.//_

“Yeah, well, you’re not the one who has to give it.” Sam muttered in reply, without looking up from the paper.

Kelley shifted in his seat, causing Sam to glance over at him. The older man had a sympathetic look on his face, and when they made eye contact, he flashed an encouraging smile. “You’ll do great, Sam. It’s just like we practised.”

Sam gave him a flat look in return. “Yeah, except for the millions of people who will be watching me.”

The personal assistant weathered his peevishness with good humor. “You’ve seen Prime do it a hundred times. It can’t be any worse than your thesis defense.”

Sam chuckled quietly as his gaze slid back towards the speech. He had successfully defended his thesis in April, and it had been one of the most nerve-wracking experiences of his life—including going head-to-head with Megatron… _twice_. A megalomaniacal dictator he might be, but the Decepticon couldn’t hold a candle to a seventy-year-old with tenure who took exception to the way you cited his research. 

“True.” He murmured, scanning the paper a final time before he flipping the folder shut again, “I’m done agonizing over this stupid thing. It’s the same as it was the last two hundred times I read it.”

Kelley accepted the folder with an easy smile, before sliding it into his attaché case. Sam leaned back against the seat, staring out the windshield. The landscape had transitioned from urban sprawl to rolling hills over the last twenty minutes. The cool autumn air was already changing the foliage, splashing it with oranges and reds and golds. It looked like something out of a Bob Ross painting.

A moment later, the entertainment console lit up and the chatter from the general comms channel spilled into the cabin. Sam listened with half an ear as Hound described the topography of New York State with all the enthusiasm of a veteran geomorphologist. Evidentially, the entire region had been similar in elevation to the Rocky Mountain Range some 480 million years ago, before it had softened over time through a combination of erosion and glacial scouring. Although Sam was a human geographer, rather than a physical geographer, he still found it interesting.

The drive turned out to be pleasant, even if his legs were stiff and his back was sore after the first few hours. They passed a little town named Lenox just north of Scranton, Pennsylvania, which caused some good-natured teasing on the comms channel. After that, though, the group lapsed into a companionable silence as they continued south.

The sun was low on the horizon by the time they emerged from the Holland Tunnel onto Manhattan Island. Sam leaned forward in his seat, ducking his head so that he could look at the skyscrapers and office buildings that crowded the city. Sunlight glinted off windows and polished metal, warm and golden, but the streets themselves were cast in shadow—the light blocked by the buildings themselves. The roads were crowded and narrow, lined by parked cars and transport vans unloading their goods. It made travel difficult and slow going, but they navigated the congested streets well enough. By the time they turned into Midtown East, the streetlights had started coming on, one by one, as pedestrians hurried home for their supper.

It was a sentiment with which Sam agreed completely. He was hungry, after four hours on the road, and he was looking forward to getting something to eat.

Their convoy pulled to a stop in front of the Millennium Hilton, an upscale hotel less than a block from the United Nations. Evidentially, the staff had been informed of their pending arrival, for they had cleared a space for the five vehicles directly in front of the entrance. Sam pushed open the door and climbed out of the driver’s seat as a middle-aged man in a sharp-looking suit stepped forward to greet them.

“Your Excellency, welcome to the Millennium Hilton.” He said, extending his hand, “My name is Dan Briks, and I am the General Manager. If there is anything we can do to improve your stay, please, let me know.”

Professional hospitality practically rolled off the man, as if it was his personal cologne. Sam accepted his hand, before gesturing to the other men who had joined him on the curb.

“Thank-you, Mr. Briks. This is Dave Carter, Optimus Prime’s Chief of Staff. He will be your main point of contact for the duration of our visit. This is Major William Lennox and Lieutenant Kelley, members of the delegation.”

The men shook hands in turn, before Sam stepped aside to place a hand on Bumblebee’s hood. “This is Bumblebee, the head of my security detail. The Solstice is Jazz, Prime’s second-in-command, and these two are Hound and Trailbreaker.”

Briks inclined his head to each Autobot in turn, extending them the same courtesy that he had shown to the human members of the delegation.

“We are delighted that you have chosen the Millennium Hilton for your stay.” He said, gesturing with one hand towards the broad, glass doors behind him, “If you would please come with me, your rooms have been prepared for your arrival.”

Sam nodded, straightening his suit jacket as he followed the older man into the building. The lobby was an impressive sight, with gleaming hardwood and polished marble floors. They made their way towards the elevators on the opposite side of the room. The air was filled with the sounds of classical music and hushed conversation from the restaurant near the lobby. The General Manager thumbed the call button, before turning to smile at them. The elevator dinged a moment later, its doors sliding open to reveal an empty car. The four of them stepped inside, and Briks pressed the button for the fifth floor.

Sam always stayed between the third and fifth floors whenever he was overnighting away from the embassy. It was easy to evacuate, in the event of a fire, and it gave him plenty of vertical escape room in the event the hotel was stormed by enemy forces. His room was also located as far from the lobby as possible, to minimize the likelihood of injury in case of an explosion. It meant that the views usually sucked—he either overlooked the street or, more often than not, directly into another building, but as his curtains had to stay closed for security purposes, it didn’t really matter either way.

The elevator opened onto a tastefully decorated hallway, with thick, dark carpet and cream-colored wallpaper. They were led down the hall, around a corner, and down another hallway. The General Manager eventually stopped in front of a nondescript door, before pressing a keycard against the electronic reader. The mechanism released with an audible _click_ , and then the door was pushed open to allow Sam to enter. The room within was of modest size, decorated in the same modern-minimalist style as the rest of the hotel—which was to say, plenty of wood tones and gleaming surfaces, with tasteful accents positioned around the room.

“This is your suite, Your Excellency. Mr. Carter is next door, Mr. Lennox is across the hall, and Mr. Kelley has the adjoining room. Is there anything you require at this time?”

Sam glanced around the spacious living area, before shaking his head. “No, thank-you.”

Birks inclined his head deeply in response. “If you require anything at all, just call the front desk.”

The older man stepped out of the room, gesturing for Carter and the others to follow him. As soon as the door swung shut behind them, Bumblebee’s holoform materialized a short distance away. Sam’s lips twitched up in a faint smile in greeting.

“Hello you.” He murmured.

It had been decided—by Red Alert, probably—that the connection between Bumblebee’s holoform and his alt mode should be kept to need-to-know only. As far as any outsiders were concerned, the holoform was just another member of Sam’s security detail.

“Hello to you as well.” Bumblebee replied, stepping into Sam’s personal space and nuzzling against the side of his neck, “I missed you.”

Sam laughed softly. “I missed you too.”

The holoform pressed a soft kiss against his jawline, causing a pleasant shiver to skitter down Sam’s spine, before he stepped away. “You’re hungry. The reservation is at eight—will that do?”

Sam glanced down at his watch, a polished Rolex that Bumblebee had given him as a graduation present. He wasn’t prone to materialism by nature, and he knew next to nothing about men’s fashion, but the stainless steel band contrasted tastefully with the navy blue clock-face, and Sam wore it whenever he was working.

“Yeah, that’ll be fine. Where’s the reservation?” He asked.

“Gallaghar’s Stakehouse.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam groaned in approval—he had eaten at the restaurant once before, when Lennox and Carter had dragged him to Las Vegas to celebrate his graduation. It had been the best tenderloin on the planet.

“You’re amazing.” He breathed, leaning forward to kiss the holoform, slow and deep, before nipping at his lower lip, “Have I told you that recently?”

Bumblebee’s mental presence was affectionate and amused. “Not very recently.”

“Well, I mean it.” Sam replied with feeling, “Absolutely amazing.”

He stepped forward until he stood chest-to-chest with the taller holoform, before tangling his fingers in his short, sandy hair. He angled his head up while pulling Bumblebee down to meet him—the kiss was more heated this time, with the hint of tongue and the occasional flash of teeth. Bumblebee obliged him for a long moment, before drawing back and giving him an amused look.

“We’re about to be interrupted.” He said, by way of apology.

Sam groaned softly as he turned, glancing over his shoulder at the door. True enough, there came a polite knock a moment later.

“Who is it?” He asked, stepping away from the holoform and reaching for the door handle.

“Kelley.” Bumblebee replied, a moment before Sam pulled open the door to reveal the aforementioned man. He was dressed in a sharp-looking suit and tie that had Dave Carter’s influence written all over it.

“Hey Jason, come in.” Sam greeted, before waving a hand in the direction of the sofa, “Take a load off.”

The older man grinned at him, before stepping into the room. “Thanks Sam. Oh, hey Bumblebee.”

“Hello Jason.” Bumblebee replied, leaning back against the nearest armchair.

“The Tonight Show has sent an updated question list. It contains the same old stuff—youngest Ambassador to the United Nations, saviour of the world, blah blah blah—but they wanted your permission to try a new segment on the Autobots.”

As he spoke, Jason handed him a manila folder with screenshots of a number of tweets from his official Twitter account. They were all photographs that Sam had taken of the Autobots, either at Diego Garcia or the embassy. There was one of Bumblebee, gleaming yellow on the airstrip in his alt mode, there was another of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe staring haughtily at the camera, and a third of Optimus Prime standing in the command center. The Autobot leader had been in mid-speech when Sam had taken the photograph, and he looked solemn and dignified. Sam forgot what he had been talking about—not that it mattered, really. Optimus would look stately while reading a phonebook.

“What’s this?” He asked, glancing up at the other man.

“Colbert wants to play the ad-lib game with you.” He replied.

Sam tilted his head as he considered his answer. The ad-lib game was taking late night talk shows and social media by storm. It was inspired by Jimmy Kimmel’s mean tweets segment, but the goal was to comment on pictures taken from Twitter without any context or explanation. It was usually in good fun, and Colbert was vocal in his support of the Autobots—it was the main reason they had chosen his show for Sam’s first public appearance.

“Yeah, alright.” He agreed, handing the papers back to Kelley, “What’s the worst that could happen?”

* * *

Sam had come to bitterly regret his decision by the time he stood waiting in the wings, as the theme music to the Late Night show swelled over the speakers. His heart was beating like a snare drum against his sternum, spurred by the loud applause from the audience and the knowledge that he was about to _go off-script on national television_.

“You stupid asshole.” Sam muttered to himself, rubbing his hands over his pants for the second time in as many minutes.

“You’ll do great, Sam.” Carter reassured him with his usual unflappable calm, “Just be yourself.”

Sam turned his head to direct a pointed glare over his shoulder at the older man. Carter just smiled back at him, serenely, entirely unaffected by the heat of his gaze. The non-reaction caused Kelley to grin in undisguised amusement, before he shifted forward to bump shoulders with him.

“You’re going to do fine.” He said, loyally, “It’s just like jump training—keep your eyes on the guy in front of you.”

Before Sam had the chance to reply, the production assistant came up behind them. She was a younger woman, wearing boot cut jeans and a bulky-looking headset. She had been the one to greet them at the guest entrance and take them to the green room.

“You’re on in two minutes, Your Excellency.” She said.

Sam swallowed against the anxiety that dried his mouth. “Thank-you, Tansy.”

“You got this Sam.” Lennox said, arms folded over his chest where he stood leaning against the wall, “Try to avoid any mention of China, if you can. No reason to rock the boat any sooner than you need to.”

Sam nodded faintly—Carter had said as much to him over dinner earlier that evening. His attention was drawn back to the stage by Colbert, who had started introducing their segment. Sam wiped his hands on his pants again, cursing his damp palms. There’s no way that Colbert was going to miss it.

The make-up artist, whose name Sam couldn’t remember, interrupted them long enough to reapply a thin layer of powder across his face, and then the light over the doorway was blinking green. Sam braced himself, unable to hear the words of encouragement from Carter over the sound of riotous applause and his own pulse, thundering in his ears. He took a deep breath, and with a great deal of mental fortitude, he forced himself to walk onto the stage. He was immediately met by the sight of Stephen Colbert ( _holy shit—this is really happening_ ) standing to greet him. The talk show host was dressed in his signature dark colored suit and matching tie, and he was smiling from ear to ear as Sam approached. Sam glanced towards the audience and realized two things in quick succession—one, the stage lights combined with the darkened seating section effectively concealed the audience from sight, and two, people were still applauding. It was a pleasant surprise, and by the time he shook Colbert’s hands, he had was starting to relax.

“Mr. Ambassador welcome to the Tonight Show. Please—take a seat.” Colbert said, extending a hand towards the nearest armchair.

Sam’s lips twitched up in a tilted half-smile as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down. “Thanks for having me. Please, call me Sam.”

Colbert returned his smile as he took his seat, “Oh, of course. Mr. Ambassador is probably your father’s name.”

The comment surprised a genuine laugh out of him. “Don’t tell that to my mother.”

It was obvious that Colbert was no stranger to nervous guests, for everything about his demeanor—from his posture, to his warm smile, to his easy jokes—served to put Sam at ease.

“Well, my lips are sealed, but if she’s watching this live, then I’m sorry to say, the cat’s out of the bag.” Colbert replied, stage-whispering around a raised hand.

Sam huffed another laugh. “I appreciate that.”

Colbert returned his smile, easy and open, before glancing down at the paper in front of him. Sam knew it was a scripted gesture—the list of potential questions had been vetted and confirmed by both parties weeks in advance.

“So, Sam—wow, that’s strange to say, _Sam_ —I understand you recently graduated. Is that right?”

Sam nodded as he internally breathed a sigh of relief. As first questions go, this one was relatively benign.

“I did, yes. In June.” He replied.

“What was your major?” Colbert asked.

“Political Geography for my undergraduate degree, Political Science for my Masters.” Sam replied, before his lips twitched up in a smile, “It took me a while to warm up to political science, but I got there eventually.”

“No surprise there, given your role as Ambassador to the first alien species to make contact with our planet—seems like a smart choice.” Colbert replied to a smattering of polite laughter, “But _human geography_? What do geographers do, exactly? Make maps? Memorize country names?”

Sam grinned at him, wide and genuine. “Hey, don’t knock the cartographers. There are literally hundreds of them—they're everywhere. Probably.”

Colbert laughed in reply. “All around the globe, right?”

Sam grinned in appreciation at the pun. “Yeah, exactly.”

They progressed next to questions on what it was like to be the Autobot Ambassador (“It’s been great so far—though I’m glad I don’t have to pay for my own life insurance”), to his role as the youngest head-of-state in sixty years (“I’m not the head-of-state, that’s Prime’s job, I’m just the liaison”), to his thoughts on the forest fires ravaging his former home-state of California. The last question was the most difficult to answer, but he managed to give a reasonably coherent response. To his mingled relief and surprise, the talk show host steered clear of any questions involving the Decepticons or the growing anti-Autobot sentiment that was gaining traction in certain conservative circles. By the time Colbert introduced the ad-lib game, Sam had almost forgotten all about it.

“So I understand that you have quite the social media following. Can you tell me a bit about it?” Colbert asked.

“Yeah, sure.” Sam replied, clasping his hands loosely in his lap, “I wanted the Autobots to have an official media presence, and since it was my idea, I was volunteered to spearhead it. The idea was to let the outside world get a glimpse of it’s like to live among the Autobots.”

Colbert lifted a cue card, staring down at it over the rim of his glasses, “Well, congratulations. Diego Garcia’s official account has over 130 million followers and your personal account has over 80 million. I’d say your mission was a success.”

Sam surprised himself by shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I disagree. I won’t consider it a success until the world understands that the Autobots aren’t a threat. They’re alien and ancient and made of living metal, sure, but they’re _people_. Good people.”

“Well then, why don’t you tell us a bit about them?” Colbert asked with a broad smile, turning in his chair to pick up a pile of placards that had been placed facedown on the desk, “Are you familiar with the ad-lib game?”

Sam settled back in his seat with a rueful smile, “Yeah… I think so.”

“Great, then you know how it’s played. For those of you at home, I will show the audience a tweet from either the Autobot’s official account or your personal one, and then you have to explain the picture in three words or less.”

Sam’s smile was tighter this time, but he nodded his head permissively all the same. Colbert picked up a placard, showing it first to Sam and then to the audience. It was one of the first things he had posted to Twitter—a sunset shot taken from Barton Point, overlooking the water. The sky was a remarkable shade of crimson and orange that was reflected across the dark ocean.

“Peaceful.” Sam supplied automatically, “Beautiful… and quiet.”

Colbert nodded and turned around the second picture, which was the same tweet of Bumblebee that Kelley had showed him earlier.

Sam smiled in response. “Brave, loyal, and funny.”

 _And mine_. He thought, directing the sentiment towards the winter-white glow residing at the edge of his mind. Bumblebee pressed against him, both in appreciation and in solidarity.

“This is Bumblebee, right?” Colbert asked, still holding the picture.

“That’s right.” Sam replied, relaxing into the seat—he could talk about this all day, “He was the first Autobot to make contact with me. He’s my guardian and the fastest scout under Prime’s command.”

“Not that you’re biased.” Colbert teased in reply.

“Maybe a little.” Sam agreed with a small smile.

Colbert set the placard down and picked up the next one—it was Sunstreaker, striking a pose with his servos on his hip struts. The grin spread across Sam’s face before he could stop it.

“That’s Sunstreaker—and I mean that as an adjective in and of itself.” He said, “But if you’re looking for two more, how about self-confident and proud?”

It was the nicest way he could say ‘self-absorbed egomaniac’ on national television. He and Sunstreaker got along better now than they had at first, but the warrior was still abrasive and self-aggrandizing on a good day.

Colbert evidentially understood the subtext of his words, for he gave a knowing smile. “Big fan of himself, huh?”

Sam gave the older man a tilted half-smile, and replied, as diplomatically as he could, “It’s not entirely undeserved.”

Colbert chuckled, before moving on to the next picture. It was the shot of Optimus standing in the command center.

Sam didn’t even hesitate. “He’s wise. And patient. Actually, wait, can I say patient twice?”

Colbert laughed good-naturedly. “Sure, why not? Why do you say so?”

Sam shrugged and replied without thinking. “Prime has seen things that you and I couldn’t begin to imagine. He’s suffered the loss of his home, his closest friends, his culture, and through it all, he’s remained...” Sam’s voice trailed off as he struggled to find the right words, “Human. Grounded. _Humble._ He deals with big personalities every single day, and he’s never lost his temper or raised his voice in all the time I’ve known him. He’s fundamentally _good_ , you know? That’s not to say he’s infallible, because he’s not, but there’s something about him that makes you want to be a better person, just by virtue of being in his company.”

By the time that Sam had stopped speaking, the studio had gone perfectly silent. You could have heard a pin drop, it was that quiet. It took him a moment to realize the silence was due to the undivided attention he was receiving, as opposed to any shock or disbelief.

Colbert cleared his throat. “He sounds like a remarkable person.”

“He is.” Sam replied with feeling, “I consider myself fortunate to know him.”

The older man picked up the last placard that sat on the desk, turning it around to reveal Ratchet. The Chief Medical Office was standing at his workbench with a supremely unimpressed look on his face. Sam had caught him in the middle of disassembling a piece of equipment, which was likely the only thing that had prevented him from pitching Sam straight out of the medical bay when he realized what he was doing.

Sam’s mouth twitched precariously as he struggled not to laugh. “I plead the fifth.”

Colbert’s eyebrows drifted closer to his hairline. “Oh?”

“Definitely.” Sam replied, the grin finally breaking through to spread across his face, “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

The smattering of laughter that followed was entirely worth whatever retribution would be waiting for him when they got back to the Diego Garcia.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thank-you for your love and support! It means the world to me. 
> 
> **Chapter Warning:** Explicit sexual content

The rest of the Late Show was an enjoyable experience. Sam was followed by Andy Samberg, which was a surreal moment in and of itself, and then a local politician who was making waves for her progressive policies. Sam nodded and laughed at all the right moments, and the show wrapped up without incident. He was grinning from ear to ear by the time he left the stage, after a brief stop to tell Samberg how much he had enjoyed Brooklyn 99. The comedian was surprisingly down-to-earth for a celebrity, and he accepted Sam’s praise with a lopsided grin.

Carter and the others were waiting for him in the wings, and after surreptitiously checking to see if there was anyone within earshot, Sam laughed in disbelief.

“Did you see that? I met _Andy Samberg!_ ” He managed.

Kelley chuckled good-naturedly. “Congrats, Sam.”

“Oh my God.” Sam said, grinning, as they started towards the backstage, “I think that was one of the coolest things that’s ever happened to me.”

“Says the Ambassador to an alien species.” Kelley snorted, pulling the stage doors open and holding it for them.

The backstage area was teeming with people, from the camera operators to stage managers to production assistants. Tansy was there to greet him, holding a clipboard in one hand and her headset radio in the other.

“Congratulations, Mr. Ambassador.” She said by way of greeting, “You did great.”

Sam’s smile was wide and genuine in return. “Thank-you, Tansy.”

The young woman fell into step beside them as they crossed the backstage towards the guest entrance. The door was nondescript, except for a neon-green exit sign glowing above it. Sam was aware of the way that heads turned and conversation petered off as they passed. It made him feel _watched_ in a way that sitting in front of a studio audience had not.

“There’s a crowd outside.” Tansy warned as they approached the door, “There don’t seem to be any agitators, but I wanted to give you a heads-up.”

Sam resisted the urge to frown at the news. He turned his attention inwards instead, and nudged against the warm glow at the edge of his mind. Bumblebee’s mental presence was alert but unperturbed, which was always a good sign. It meant that there weren’t any protestors, at least.

Although the Autobots were accepted by most—grudgingly, perhaps, and with no small amount of suspicion—there was a vocal minority who condemned their actions at Mission City. It was a direct result of Leland Bishop’s leaked footage and the trial that followed. Although the federal government had thrown the book at him—two consecutive life sentences in Guantanamo with no chance for parole—his trial had been open to the public and it had fanned the flames of anti-Autobot sentiment, both in the United States and abroad. Prime had spent the last four years on humanitarian missions and charitable works around the world, but the vitriol was persistent.

“Thanks for letting us know.” Sam replied, coming back to himself as the production assistant reached for the door, “It was nice to meet you.”

Tansy tucked her hair behind her ear with her free hand, and gave him a coy smile. “It was nice to meet you too, Mr. Ambassador. You have my number, if you need it, so don’t hesitate to call.”

Sam blinked, taken aback by the obvious flirtation, but he was rescued by Carter, before he had the chance to flounder.

“Thank-you, Ms. Barnes.” He said, stepping forward to push open the door, “It has been a pleasure. We will be in touch if anything arises.”

They were met by an onslaught of shouting, camera flashes, and excited chatter as soon as the door was opened. Lennox stepped outside first, sharp-eyed and serious, followed closely by Kelley. The two men glanced around the crowd, searching for any signs of trouble, before Lennox nodded in his direction. Sam mentally braced himself and then he stepped outside after them. The guest entrance opened onto an alleyway, which had been originally used to offload equipment. Bumblebee and Trailbreaker were parked directly in front of the entrance, but beyond them was a sizable crowd of people. He turned, making his way down the loading ramp as the crowd clambered for his attention. Sam smiled and nodded politely, but he didn’t hesitate to climb into Bumblebee’s waiting cab. Kelley slid into the passenger seat a moment later, and then the doors snapped shut behind them, muffling the cacophony outside.

“Holy shit.” Sam breathed, pulling the seatbelt across his chest, “There’s got to be a hundred people out there.”

“One hundred and thirty-seven.” Bumblebee informed him dryly, as his engine turned over, “They started assembling shortly after Colbert introduced you.”

The Camaro’s headlights came on at the same time as Trailbreaker’s, illuminating the crowd. It was impossible to miss the blend of curiosity and excitement visible on their faces. The two alt modes rolled forward as they passed the bulk of the crowd, before they accelerated towards the street. There were a number of pedestrians on the sidewalk in front of the building, but it was easy enough to pull onto the road. Sam breathed a sigh of relief as Bumblebee merged with traffic and the Ed Sullivan Theatre fell away behind them.

“Another one bites the dust.” Kelley said, settling back into his seat.

“Thank God.” Sam agreed, loosening his tie as he glanced at the dashboard, “Did you make any admirers?”

“Only a few, it seems.” Bumblebee replied, all wry humor, “I must be losing my touch.”

Sam laughed, flicking the Autobot emblem on the steering wheel with his finger. “You’re so vain.”

The steering wheel twiddled playfully in his hands as Bumblebee turned the corner. Anything that Sam might have said in reply was forgotten, however, as Times Square came into sight in all of its shining glory. Sam made a strangled noise of excitement as he leaned forward in his seat, straining to take it all in. The sidewalks were crowded full of pedestrians, despite the late hour, and the electronic billboards cast Technicolor light across the chrome and glass of the surrounding buildings.

“Look, Sam, it’s the Times Square ball.” Kelley said, pointing at the glittering ball above a Toshiba advertisement.

“That’s so cool!” Sam grinned, “It looks bigger on television.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Kelley chuckled, “Wait until you see the Statue of Liberty.”

They continued past Times Square with Kelley pointing out landmarks as they drove. There was the Empire State Building, the Flatiron Building, Little Italy, Chinatown, and the Brooklyn Bridge. By the time they made it back to the Millennium Hilton, Sam was delighted.

“I’ve always wanted to see New York City at night.” He said as Bumblebee pulled to a stop in front of the hotel, “Do you think we could go to the top of the Empire State Building?”

“I’m sure it could be arranged.” Bumblebee replied, before Kelley could get a word in edge-wise. “You have time on Friday morning. Jason can make some phone calls.”

Kelley quirked an eyebrow at the dashboard, clearly sceptical, but he didn’t argue or disagree. “I’ll see what I can do—no promises, though.”

Sam grinned appreciatively as they climbed out of the car. “Thanks, Jay. Do you want to grab a drink before we head upstairs?”

“Sorry, but the lounge closed at eleven.” Kelley replied, stepping up onto the sidewalk, “Rain check?”

Sam glanced down at his watch in surprise, only to realize it was half-past one in the morning—and he had a speech to give at eleven o’clock. He groaned, shutting the driver’s side door as Jazz and Hound pulled to a stop behind Trailbreaker. The second-in-command flashed his high beams at them in greeting, and Sam waved in return.

“I guess we’d better turn in for the night.” He said, patting the Jeep Wrangler on the hood as he passed, “Though I doubt I’ll get any sleep.”

Carter and Lennox were waiting for them on the steps of the hotel. The porter stepped forward, pulling open the door as they approached. Sam nodded his thanks at the younger man, before stepping into the lobby.

“Did you guys follow us through the city?” He asked, curiously.

“We did.” Carter agreed, his shoes ringing off the polished marble floors as they made their way towards the elevators, “How did you enjoy it?”

“It was great.” Sam said, grinning again, “We’re going to try to make it to the Empire State Building on Friday.”

Carter chuckled as he thumbed the call button. “I’ve heard the view is nice.”

The doors opened and they stepped aside, allowing two couples in evening wear to exit the elevator. Carter extended a hand towards the car after they passed, and Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he stepped inside. Lennox and Kelley followed behind him, with Carter stepping inside last of all. The doors slid shut behind them, and Sam leaned back against the guardrail as the floors _dinged_ off one by one.

“I’ll see you guys in the morning.” He said, as the doors slid open to reveal their floor, “Are you going anywhere for breakfast?”

“I was going to order room service.” Carter said, pulling his keycard from his overcoat, “Unless you had other plans?”

Sam’s lips twitched in amusement. “No offense, Carter, but you wake up way too early to make breakfast plans with you.”

The older man gave him an exasperated look as he unlocked his room. “Six o’clock isn’t early.”

The locking mechanism on Sam’s door disengaged on its own accord. He pushed open the door, before calling over his shoulder, “Says you. G’night, guys.”

The others bid him farewell as he let the door swing shut behind him. He tugged at his tie, loosening it and sliding it off from around his neck as he made his way into the room. The side lamp had been turned on in his absence, spilling warm light around the living space. As Sam shrugged out of his suit jacket, he spied a familiar-looking folder on the writing desk. He slung the jacket over the nearest armchair as he padded across the room. The folder contained his speech, printed on expensive-looking stationary with the Autobot insignia embossed at the top of the page. The sight of the speech caused something heavy and uneasy to settle in the pit of his stomach. He sighed softly, toeing off his shoes before sitting at the desk.

_“It is my honor to speak with you today on behalf of Optimus Prime—“_

He felt, rather than heard, Bumblebee’s holoform materialize behind him.

“You should go to bed.” Bee murmured, settling his hands on Sam’s shoulders, “You have a big day tomorrow.”

_“—who believes, as I do, that freedom is the right of all sentient beings, regardless of race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, socio-economic status, age, or religion.”_

“I’m not going to be able to sleep.” Sam sighed in reply, “Too much on my mind.”

_“The freedom to live as one chooses, love as one chooses, and worship as one chooses, so long as those choices do not detrimentally affect another.”_

Bumblebee leaned down, wrapping his arms around Sam’s torso and tucking his chin over his shoulder. “You need your rest.”

Sam sighed again as he glanced down, looking over the remainder of the speech.

__

> _“The abuses propagated by the Chinese Communist Party, directly and indirectly, besmirch this unassailable right—one shared by humans and Autobots alike. To that end, we condemn, in the strongest possible terms, the actions that the Chinese government have taken against the Uyghur Muslims, the citizens of Hong Kong, and the independent nation of Tibet._
> 
> _Our long history has taught us the costs of subjugation and of tyranny, and I say to you now: there can be no integrity without freedom and no justice without integrity. It is clear that the Chinese Community Party holds no regard for these values, nor for the value of a human life._
> 
> _For these reasons, we state to you, representatives of the United Nations, that Diego Garcia will not be complicit to genocide and ethnic cleansing in the name of economic relations—not to China, nor to any other nation. We, the peoples of this planet, must lift up the weak and downtrodden. Let the mistakes of our past be a history lesson, not an instructional, on how we treat each other—with dignity and respect, until all are one.”_

He sighed again, setting the speech on the writing desk. The Autobot insignia seemed to stare back at him, stoic and silent and expectant. He scrubbed a hand across his face, knuckling the grit out of his eyes.

“What if I screw it up?” He asked, quietly.

Bumblebee’s arms tightened around him as he pressed a feather-soft kiss against his temple. “You won’t.”

“Are you sure Optimus knows what he’s doing?” He asked, finally allowing himself to voice the doubts that had been niggling at him for weeks. “China’s going to retaliate, and they outnumber us by a billion-to-one.”

Bumblebee leaned forward, pressing a single finger against the stationary and sliding it all the way across the desk.

“What do you feel? In your gut?” He asked, by way of answer.

Sam was quiet for a long moment as he considered his response. He had attended the briefings on the conditions in the internment camps and re-education centers. It was horrific and appalling, and anyone with a shred of human decency would have felt the same.

“It has to stop.” Sam replied, eventually.

“Well, there you have it.” Bumblebee murmured, pressing a kiss against the crown of Sam’s head, “Now come to bed.”

Sam sighed heavily, before pushing to his feet. The events of the day—preparations in the morning, the four-hour drive, the excitement about New York City, and his performance jitters—all seemed to be marshalling against him. Bumblebee’s expression was soft as he stepped forward, unbuttoning Sam’s shirt.

“I can do that.” Sam grumbled, raising his hands to take over, but Bumblebee just brushed them aside.

“Let me do this for you, Sam.” He murmured, revealing pale flesh one button at a time, “Let me take you apart.”

Sam’s lips twitched up at the hint of _suggestion_ in the holoform’s voice. “Oh?”

Bumblebee hummed in agreement as he smoothed his palms up Sam’s chest, before slipping the shirt off his shoulders. “I guarantee you’ll sleep like a baby, afterwards.”

Sam laughed as a rush of affection warmed his chest. “I’m not that bad.”

Bumblebee chuckled, low and indecent, as he draped his shirt over the desk chair.

“You can say that in thirty minutes, if you’re still awake.” He rumbled, going down to his knees in front of him.

Sam’s breath hitched as the holoform slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of his pants. His touch was sure and confident as he slid his hands around to Sam’s fly, unbuttoning the clasp and tugging the material down over his hips. Sam’s breath escaped in a long, throaty sigh as Bumblebee leaned forward, mouthing at the sensitive skin below his navel.

“I’m not opposed to doing this here, but you might be more comfortable on the bed.” The holoform mused, slanting him a knowing look.

Sam smiled down at him, running his hands through his hair. The sandy blond strands parted easily between his fingers. “I don’t know. You look pretty good like this.”

Bumblebee rolled his eyes, before reaching out to give him a stinging swat on the ass. “Go on with you.”

Sam laughed, half in surprise and half in amusement as he hurried across the room. The queen-sized bed was located in an alcove near the bathroom, and Sam sat on the edge of the mattress as Bumblebee trailed behind him.

“So, what did you have in mind?” He asked, the challenge in his words undercut by his breathless anticipation.

“I already told you, Sam: I’m going to take you apart.” Bumblebee replied, coming to stand between his legs. “You don’t need to do anything—just lie back and enjoy it.”

Sam groaned softly in response. He and Bumblebee had developed a rhythm over the last four years—sometimes Sam topped him, but more often than not, Bumblebee topped Sam. Either way, there wasn’t any doubt as to which of them was the dominant one in the bedroom.

As if sensing his thoughts, and of course, he probably was, the holoform’s face softened in a smile.

“Put your hands above your head and keep them there until I tell you otherwise.” He murmured, smoothing his palms down Sam’s thighs.

Sam’s cocked twitched at the steel underlying those words. He settled back against the mattress, making himself comfortable, before raising his hands above his head. Bumblebee smiled at him, pushing _approval_ across their bond-space as he sank to his knees in front of him. He pulled Sam forward several inches, until his pelvis was resting at the edge of the bed.

“I was proud of you tonight.” He said, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Sam’s knee, “You were well spoken and genuine—the others felt the same.”

Sam’s breath hitched in his throat as the holoform moved higher, pressing another kiss against the silky-soft skin of his inner thigh. It made Sam’s cock thicken with interest, which in turn made Bumblebee chuckle as he dragged his hands up Sam’s legs to grasp him by the hips.

“I’ve missed you.” He said, looking up to meet Sam’s half-lidded gaze.

“I missed you too.” Sam murmured in reply.

The holoform smiled at him, before taking Sam’s half-hard cock in his hand. His grip was firm and warm as he stroked him from root to tip, letting Sam’s body catch up with the program, before he took his cockhead in his mouth. Sam groaned, long and low, as Bumblebee suckled him, all soft lips and silky tongue, before he hallowed his cheeks and swallowed him down.

“That feels so good.” Sam whimpered, struggling not to wriggle his hips. Bumblebee never allowed him to set the pace of his blowjobs. “Oh man, that feels so— _ah!”_

Sam’s rambling was cut off in a breathless cry as Bumblebee pressed a finger against his perineum, causing sparks of pleasure to skitter through his groin. The holoform’s pace never faltered, never slowed, as he slid his finger back to tease Sam’s tight hole. Sam moaned raggedly as he let his legs fall open.

“Oh _god,_ Bumblebee, please…” He begged, arching his back as Bumblebee slowly teased his entrance.

A moment later, his finger breached Sam’s body. He pressed in less than an inch, barely past the first knuckle, before withdrawing again. He repeated the action for a second time and then a third, teasing Sam until he was unable to control the jerk of his hips.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, yes.” Sam moaned, tossing his head back against the mattress, “Just like that.”

The holoform pulled off of Sam’s cock with an obscene wet sound, and Sam whined against the sudden loss of sensation. His despair was short-lived, however, as Bumblebee sub-spaced a bottle of personal lubricant and applied a generous amount to his two fingers.

“Be patient.” Bumblebee admonished, leaning down to bite at the knob of Sam’s hipbone, “I’ll take care of you.”

Sam whimpered as Bumblebee pressed a finger against his tight hole, sliding inside him with one smooth motion. He grasped Sam’s cock with his other hand, stroking in time with his finger as he thrust in and out of Sam’s willing body. The dual assault lit up Sam’s spine, causing his groin to tighten with arousal.

“Please more.” He moaned. He would have thrust his hips, rules be damned, but he had no leverage with his legs dangling over the side of the bed.

“More what?” Bumblebee asked, with the patience of a saint—a fact that was at odds with the way he was finger-fucking Sam’s ass without mercy.

Sam blushed hotly at the question, earning himself a chuckle in response. Bumblebee often made him say what he was thinking in bed—it made him feel embarrassed and aroused and vulnerable, all at once.

“Go on then.” Bumblebee admonished, giving his dick a meaningful squeeze, “Tell me what you want.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. When he failed to answer for a second time, Bumblebee’s hand stilled on his cock—a warning, if ever Sam knew one.

“Please… finger me.” He managed to reply, as his face grew hotter.

“Finger you?” Bumblebee mused, giving him a lazy stroke from root to crown, “That could mean a lot of things. I need you to be more specific.”

Sam’s flushed deepened, spreading all the way to his hairline.

“Please… finger my ass.” He whimpered, shifting his hips, “C’mon, Bee, don’t make me beg.”

The holoform stroked him again, before swirling the pad of his thumb over Sam’s frenulum. “You know I like it when you beg—you’re very pretty.”

Sam’s screwed his eyes shut as he struggled not to move his hands.

“Please finger me, Bumblebee. It feels so good, _you_ feel so good when you—“

His words were lost in a gasp as Bumblebee slid a finger, wet with lubrication, into Sam’s ass, and after twisting his wrist, bumped against his prostate. Sam moaned, long and low, at the pleasure that licked up his spine and spread across his groin. Bumblebee thrust several more times, before he added a second finger. The stretch was more now, a pleasant fullness that Sam loved, and he was reduced to incoherent moaning not long after.

“That’s it.” Bumblebee murmured, salaciously, “Let go—don’t think, just feel.”

Sam whimpered as the holoform traced a finger down the underside of Sam’s cock, where it lay leaking against his belly. A moment later, Bumblebee was mouthing across his heated flesh, laving it with lips and tongue, until he took it his mouth. The holoform bobbed against him, working Sam’s cock and his prostate in tandem, until he was moaning helplessly against the onslaught.

“Please, please, please—“ Sam panted, eyes screwed shut and head tossed back, “Oh _fuck_...”

The holoform’s mental presence pressed close as he lit up Sam’s mind with a burst of charge. White-hot pleasure rushed through his body all at once, and Sam arched his back and screamed as his orgasm crashed into him. Bumblebee worked him through the aftershocks, suckling at his cockhead until he whimpered from overstimulation. Then, the holoform glanced up, making eye contact with Sam, as he flicked his tongue across his slit, lapping up the remainder of his release.

Sam groaned, long and low, as he collapsed back against the mattress. Bumblebee kissed the inside of his thigh, before pulling Sam’s boxers back up over his hips. When he finished, the holoform stood up and padded into the bathroom.

Sam threw an arm over his face, struggling to catch his breath. He felt amazing—warm and relaxed in the best way possible. He could hear the sound of footsteps a moment later, and then Bumblebee _nudged_ against his mind.

“Here.” He said, “Drink this.”

Sam lowered his arm and slanted open his eyes. Bumblebee was holding a tall glass of water, and all of a sudden, Sam realized that he was absolutely parched. He rolled over, propping himself up on an elbow, as he accepted the glass. The water was cool and refreshing, and he finished the entire glass.

“Come on, under the blankets.” Bumblebee prompted, turning down the duvet.

Sam leaned over, placing the glass on the nightstand, before he shimmied beneath the covers. The sheets were cool against his heated skin, and he groaned in appreciation. Bumblebee slid into bed a moment later, pausing long enough to snap off the lights, and then he settled down against the pillows. Sam snuggled against him, shifting around until he found the perfect spot—his head resting against Bumblebee’s chest, an arm wrapped around his waist, and their legs tangled together beneath the blankets. Sam sighed in contentment, letting his eyes drift closed.

He was asleep well before the thirty-minute mark.

* * *

The room was dark, when Sam finally woke up, but sunshine peeking through the curtains was evidence that he had slept through the night. He lifted his head, staring blearily at the clock on the nightstand, only to learn it wasn’t even seven o’clock in the morning yet. He grunted in disapproval, burying his face in the pillow and closing his eyes. He was almost asleep again when a hand came down on his shoulder, shaking him roughly.

“Sam, wake-up.” Bumblebee snapped.

The tone of his voice, tight and serious, woke him up immediately. Sam sat up in bed, pushing the blankets away from him.

“What is it?” He demanded, “What’s happened?”

The holoform tossed him a bundle of clothing, which Sam caught in his hands.

“Our sensors have detected an unusual spike in radiation approximately 200 million miles from Earth.” Bumblebee replied, “It’s rapidly intensifying.”

Sam clambered to his feet and started pulling on clothing—first his jeans, then his shirt, before he sat back down to grab his socks.

“What does that mean?” He asked.

“We don’t know yet.” Bumblebee admitted, “It could mean any number of things—none of them are good.”

Sam stood up again, yanking on his sweater before hurrying into the bathroom. “How bad are we talking here?”

“Prowl doesn’t want to speculate based on incomplete data.” Bumblebee called to him from the living room.

Sam relieved himself and washed his hands, before striding back into the bedroom. “Can you? Speculate, I mean?”

The holoform’s expression darkened as he handed Sam his shoes and overcoat. “The radiation is consistent with early Iaconian trans-warp engines. The technology is old, but powerful.”

Sam frowned, toeing on his shoes and shrugging into his coat. “What, like a spaceship?”

The door to his suite banged open, revealing Carter in his suit and overcoat. The Chief of Staff looked at Sam, eyes raking him over from head to toe.

“Is he ready?” Carter demanded, brisk and to the point.

“Yes.” Bumblebee replied, as he started towards the door.

“Wait, what about my stuff?” Sam asked, glancing around the room.

“Leave it.” Bumblebee said tersely, “We will send someone after we've received the all-clear. For now, we’re on lock-down protocols.”

Sam’s lips thinned in a mixture of trepidation and understanding. Lock-down occurred during activations whenever uncertainty and urgency were high. It involved, among other procedures, complete radio silence and emergency evacuation.

“Where’s the rendezvous point?” Sam asked, crossing the room towards them.

“Upstate New York, near the border.” Bumblebee replied, following behind him as Carter stepped into the hallway. “We won’t know when the relief ship is arriving until we receive its ready signal.”

Kelley and Lennox were already waiting for them in the hallway. Both men were dressed for the outdoors, with heavy jackets and comfortable footwear. Carter led the way down the hall, and the rest of them fell into step behind him. No one said a word as the elevator doors slid open—empty, mercifully—and they made their way downstairs. It wasn’t until they stepped into the lobby that they realized something was amiss. There were at least two dozen people crowded around the flat-screen television affixed to the wall across from the reception desk. Even the porters and desk attendants were watching the screen, their faces pale and drawn. Sam followed their gazes, only to stop dead in his tracks.

“What the hell is that?” He managed, his mouth suddenly dry.

The television had been tuned to a breaking news channel, and it was showing a live-feed from an urban area—Chicago, perhaps, or Buffalo. A strange black mass had appeared in the sky above the apartments and the office buildings. It was larger in appearance than the moon, although scale was impossible to judge, and it was pitch-black in color. The dark mass was surrounded by a brilliant, wispy corona that blurred into the pale, blue sky.

Bumblebee’s hand pressed against the small of his back, urging him forward.

“That is a space bridge.” He replied, grimly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Here we go...

They hurried towards the glass doors on the opposite side of the lobby. The news coverage had cut back to the studio, where an attractive looking anchor was speaking into the camera. The volume was too low for Sam to hear what he was saying, but judging by the way the crowd had started murmuring to one another, it wasn’t anything good. The General Manager was standing near the reception desk, watching the television with a grim set to his mouth. He turned his head as they neared, and his face paled as soon as he laid eyes on them. The older man straightened up, before falling into step beside them as they passed.

“Do we need to leave Manhattan?” He asked, voice low and urgent.

“There is no credible threat to the city at this time.” Carter replied, without breaking his stride.

“Are you sure?” Birks asked, reaching out to catch him by the elbow, “I have kids in school. Should I go get them?”

Carter jerked his arm away and fixed the other man with a cool look. “We have no reason to believe that New York is at risk of an attack. Now, please—excuse us.”

Birks slowed to a stop, letting them pass without further comment. Sam turned his head, glancing over his shoulder in time to see the older man pull a cell phone out of his pocket. His face was ashen as he raised the mobile device to his ear and hurried into his office, out of sight.

Sam turned back around as Carter and Lennox stepped forward, pushing open the glass doors and stepping outside. He followed behind them, taking the front steps two at a time. Bumblebee and the others were already waiting by the curb with their engines idling in the cool morning air. Sam pulled his jacket closer as he hurried around Bumblebee’s front end. The driver’s side door opened as he approached, and Sam quickly slid into the seat.

“How are we looking?” He asked, turning to grab the seatbelt and pulling it across his chest.

“Traffic is heavy in the city, but it will clear up when we get on the Parkway.” Bumblebee replied, as Kelley climbed into the passenger seat.

As soon as they were safely inside the cab, both doors snapped shut behind them. Sam watched as Carter and Lennox climbed into Jazz’s front seat, and a moment later, the second-in-command was pulling away from the curb. Bumblebee followed behind him, as Trailbreaker and Hound brought up the rear. The four Autobots merged into traffic, before accelerating to thirty-five miles per hour.

“How long will it take to the get to the rendezvous point?” Kelley asked, drumming his fingers against his knee.

“Approximately three hours.” Bumblebee replied. His voice was terse, and each word was precisely pronounced. It was a tell that Sam had picked up on over the years—Bumblebee was feeling apprehensive. He reached out, brushing against the warm glow in his mind as they turned onto Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive. The road ran parallel to the water on their right, which meant they were driving north. Sam turned his head, staring out over the river at the buildings on the opposite shoreline. The sky was a perfect, clear blue and the sun was glinting off the water. It was a beautiful day—or it would have been, if they weren’t fleeing from an unknown threat. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he twisted in his seat, scanning the sky for any signs of the dark mass they had seen on television. He couldn’t see anything, but the western sky was blocked from view by skyscrapers.

“Sam, mind your firewalls.” Bumblebee admonished.

He turned his attention inwards, only to find that his filtering firewalls had thinned sometime during the morning. He frowned as he shored them up, before pulling the filter across his mind like a shroud.

“Do we know _anything_?” He asked when he had finished.

“The space bridge appeared eleven minutes and thirty-seven seconds ago. It is emitting background radiation consistent with interstellar travel.” Bumblebee replied, following Jazz into the left lane as the second-in-command passed a metro-bus going considerably under the speed limit.

“Interstellar travel?” Kelley echoed, his brow knitting together in concern, “Do we know how many ships?”

“We do not.” Jazz replied, his voice imitating from the dashboard speakers, “Perceptor has detected energy markers that would suggest quantum engines of some kind.”

Sam frowned faintly. He knew that the _Ark_ had five hyperfuel intake accelerators, but he wasn’t sure how that compared to a quantum engine.

“Quantum engines are older and more powerful than Hyperfuel engines.” Bumblebee replied, answering his unspoken question, “They are also less reliable and more difficult to maintain.”

“Is there anyway to tell whether they’re friendlies?” Kelley asked.

“Nope.” Jazz replied, popping the plosive, “Both sides used quantum engines at the start of the war.”

“And there’s still no word from Diego Garcia?” Sam asked, softly.

“No.” Bumblebee replied.

The information was unwelcome, but not unexpected. He knew the four Autobots would be on radio-silence until Optimus sent the all-clear, and there was no telling when that would be. The thought gave an uneasy twist in Sam’s belly, and he shifted against the seat.

In front of them, Jazz laid on the horn as some asshole in a Subaru changed lanes without signalling, cutting them off. The driver responded by rolling down his window and giving the second-in-command the finger.

“New Yorkers.” Kelley muttered, shaking his head.

“That guy has no idea who he just flipped off.” Sam laughed, despite himself.

The amusement lasted only until they merged onto the interstate. As the island of Manhattan fell away behind them, the western sky became visible—and so too did the ominous black mass floating above the horizon. Sam’s stomach sank at the sight. It seemed larger than it had on television, and even from a distance, he could make out its wispy corona that bled into the sky.

“Bee… how many ships could come through that thing?” He asked, quietly.

The scout was silent for a long moment before he replied.

“As many as they have.”

That somber thought cast the cabin into silence, and they drove northward for two hours without speaking to one another. Sam stared out the windshield as the miles passed behind them—the landscape changing from low-lying metropolis to rolling hills, thick with deciduous forest. It wasn’t until Jazz changed lanes to take an otherwise unremarkable exit that Sam sat up straighter in his seat.

“Where are we going?” He asked, voice rough from disuse.

“The rendezvous spot is nearby.” Bumblebee replied, slowing down to navigate the off-ramp.

Sam’s eyebrows knit together in surprise. The area was remote, even by upstate New York standards. The highway transitioned into a two-lane rural road, which meandered its way through the forest. They passed by a lumberyard on the right and an old gas station with a single pump on the left, but otherwise there were no signs of human habitation. By the time that Jazz slowed down, turning down an overgrown pulp road, Sam couldn’t hold back his questions any longer.

“Where are we?” He asked.

“Forty miles away from anywhere.” Jazz replied dryly.

A faint frown turned down the corners of his mouth. “I’m serious. How can the _Ark_ land anywhere near here?”

“Oh ye of little faith.” Jazz answered him, slowing down as he trundled over the packed dirt road.

Sam rolled his eyes, falling back against the seat as they made their way deeper into the forest. The road was narrow in parts, so narrow that the alder bushes scratched the sides of the cars as they passed. They drove for another ten minutes, before cresting a hill, and then Sam finally understood.

The road opened onto a massive clearing, easily twenty square miles in size. The trees had been cut down, leaving only stumps and crushed underbrush as far as the eye could see. The four vehicles made their way down the hill, sticking close to the tree line as they drove. Jazz finally parked about halfway down the clearing, beneath a copse of tall oak trees. Bumblebee, Hound, and Trailbreaker pulled to a stop beside him before cutting their engines.

“Well.” Sam said, breaking the silence, “No one’s going to be looking for us here.”

In front of them, Jazz’s doors popped open as Lennox and Carter climbed out of the cab. The two men stretched their backs as they looked around the clearing. Bumblebee’s doors opened a moment later in a silent invitation. The air was cool and smelled strongly of pine trees and soil. Sam unbuckled his seatbelt, before climbing out of the car.

“Well, the _Ark_ won’t have any trouble landing here.” He said, dryly, as he approached the other two men.

“No, it shouldn’t.” Carter agreed, planting his hands on his hips as he took in their surroundings, “And the nearest town is over half-an-hour away. The fewer onlookers, the better.”

Lennox folded his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the Pontiac Solstice. “I’ve hunkered down in worse places.”

Sam fixed the older man with a wry look. “That’s not saying much—you’ve been holed up in the middle of nowhere, Afghanistan.”

Lennox conceded the point with a shrug.

They spent the next four hours waiting beneath the oak trees. At the two-hour mark, Bumblebee sub-spaced bottles of water and ration bars, and they had their lunch sitting on tree stumps in the clearing. The air warmed as the day went on, and Sam had to take off his jacket not long after. It was quiet outside, with only the sound of the wind in the trees to keep them company. By three o’clock in the afternoon, Sam’s boredom had begun to outpace his anxiety. He made his way over to Hound, who had transformed into his bipedal mode. The sentry was standing at attention, his watchful optics roving over the clearing.

“Hey, Hound.” Sam said as he approached, “Anything interesting going on?”

The sentry shook his helm minutely. “There was a lynx and her cubs on the far side of the clearing, but they fled when we arrived. A pity—she was very beautiful.”

“Really?” Sam asked, turning his head to look out across the valley, “I’ve never seen a lynx before.”

“That is not surprising.” Hound replied, “They are indigenous to Canada. This is the southern-most extent of their range.”

He stayed with Hound for another half-hour, but the sentry was unusually reserved—they all were, whenever they were on duty. He left a short while later, picking his way around tree stumps and detritus towards Bumblebee.

The scout turned to look at him as he approached, his antennae perking up in greeting.

“Hey, Bee.” Sam said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

His bonded crouched down, resting his forearms on his legs. “Hello Sam.”

Sam ambled forward until he stood in the space between Bumblebee’s knees. “This is taking a long time.”

“I know.” The scout replied, cupping his servo against Sam’s back and pulling him closer. Sam went willingly, leaning against his chassis. The smooth metal of his chest plates was warm, even through his shirt.

“No news is good news, huh?” He asked.

“It’s not bad news.” Bumblebee corrected him.

Sam was silent for a long moment, turning his response over in his head, testing it, and then he said it anyway. “Could the island be under attack?”

Bumblebee’s optics spiralled down to points, before irising open again. “We have been monitoring breaking news coverage since this morning. So far, none of the large media conglomerates are reporting any unusual activity on the island.”

Sam huffed at the ambiguous non-answer. “It’s after midnight. Could they even tell?”

“Neither NORAD nor the Indian Air Defense system has detected anything anomalous, either.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam angled his head to look his bonded in the eye. “Would you tell me if they did?”

Bumblebee’s servo curled protectively against his back. “Of course I would.”

The rest of the afternoon passed by in a blur of monotony and anxiety. The sun disappeared behind the mountains a few hours later, turning the sky a remarkable shade of burnt umber and sending long shadows across the valley. Sam and the others sat down for their dinner before it was full dark. The ready-made meals and bottled water reminded him painfully of the _Nemesis_ , but he choked down the rations without complaint. When he was finished, he excused himself to use the bathroom, and by the time he came back, Bumblebee and Trailbreaker had transformed into their alt modes.

“It will be cold soon.” Bumblebee said, popping open his door as Sam approached, “You should get some sleep.”

Sam slid into the driver’s seat without protest. The door clicked shut behind him as the vents on the dashboard turned on, spilling warm air into the cabin. He folded his hands over his belly, staring out the windshield at the stars. The clearing was fully dark now, and were it not for the dim lights on the dashboard, he wouldn’t have been able to see his hand in front of his face.

He sat there like that for an interminable time, eyes half-lidded and drifting, before Bumblebee’s mental presence _sharpened_ abruptly.

“Sam, wake up.” He urged, straightening his seat into its full, upright position.

“What is it?” Sam asked, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, “What’s happened?”

“Prime has sent the all-clear. The drop-ship is on its way.” Bumblebee replied, popping open the driver’s side door.

Sam scrambled out of the cabin, and then Bumblebee initiated his transformation sequence. Trailbreaker did the same, and soon the four Autobots had formed a loose circle beneath the oak trees.

“Well, what happened?” Sam demanded.

“We don’t know.” Jazz replied, folding his arms over his chassis, “Prime didn’t give us the play-by-play.”

Sam frowned faintly, “That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”

The saboteur rolled his pauldrons in a shrug. “Well, it’s not the standard operating procedure.”

Before Sam could reply, the clearing was flooded with blinding, white light. He made a strangled sound as he raised a hand to shield his eyes. The floodlights softened a moment later, and then he could make out the imposing shape of the _Nemesis_ hovering above the clearing.

Sam turned, directing a confused look at Jazz. “Why did Optimus send the _Nemesis_ and not the _Ark_?”

The second-in-command’s expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts. “I don’t know.”

They watched as the warship descended to the ground a short distance away. The landing struts sunk deep into the earth as the _Nemesis_ completed its landing sequence. A moment later, the starboard hatch opened with a hiss of decompression and the loading ramp extended to the ground.

“Did someone order a cab?” Thundercracker’s dry voice called across the clearing.

Sam glanced at Jazz, looking for direction, but the second-in-command just waved a servo towards the ship. “You first.”

He grimaced faintly in response, but he started across the clearing towards the _Nemesis_ without protest. The others fell in behind him, human and Autobot alike, as Trailbreaker took up the rear. Sam briefly turned his attention inwards, intending to double-check his firewalls, but he couldn’t miss the wary quality of Bumblebee’s mental presence.

 _//What is it?//_ He asked, uncertainly, as they approached the loading ramp.

 _//I don’t know.//_ Bumblebee replied.

 _//Bee.//_ Sam said, nudging at the winter-white glow, _//Tell me.//_

The scout was silent for a weighted moment before he replied.

 _//No one is returning my pings.//_ He said, grimly, _//I’ve only received acknowledgements in response.//_

Sam’s lips thinned in concern as he turned to regard the scout. Bumblebee’s plating was clamped tightly against his chassis, betraying his apprehension. Trailbreaker and Hound were similarly tense. Only Jazz, who was strolling along beside him, acted as though nothing were amiss.

 _//What about Cliff?//_ He asked softly.

Bumblebee shuttered his optics. _//Neither Cliffjumper nor Hot Rod are answering me. Only Prime is communicating with us directly.//_

“Would you hurry up?” Starscream called down to them, haughty and impatient, “I don’t want to be here any longer than absolutely necessary.”

Sam glanced up to see the Air Commander waiting at the top of the loading ramp. He was standing with his weight on one pede and his servos on his hips. Thundercracker and Skywarp were standing behind him, and (thankfully) their postures were more relaxed.

He turned back to Bumblebee, before asking the only question on his mind. _//Are we walking into a trap right now?//_

Bumblebee shook his helm in the negative. _//I don’t believe so. Prime is corresponding on a secured Autobot frequency. Not even Soundwave could falsify it.//_

Sam chewed the inside of his lip with his teeth, trying to think. Why would Optimus send the _Nemesis_ instead of the _Ark_? Why the continued radio-silence, even after the all clear? And why had no one said anything about the spacebridge?

His internal struggle was interrupted by Jazz, who pressed against his mind. The touch was one part rebuke, one part insistence. Sam turned, glancing at the saboteur in surprise. His expression was pointed and meaningful, and Sam understood at once—it was time to go.

Decision made, Sam climbed up the ramp and into the _Nemesis_ as the others followed behind him. The walls were lined with crates and equipment, leaving only a narrow path to the opposite side of the hangar. Starscream was standing at the forefront of the loading bay, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Lord High Protector.” Sam said, as solemn and dignified as he could manage, “Thank-you for your assistance.”

Starscream’s brow ridges drew together, as though in surprise, before he scoffed in response.

“Oh, this is just wonderful.” He said, sarcastically, as he started towards the opposite side of the hangar, “Come along, little Prime. The ground bridge is ready for you.”

The diminutive was clearly intended as a slight, and Sam kept from narrowing his eyes at Starscream’s back with considerable effort. He followed after the Seeker, alert for any sudden movement or noise from the shadows. Jazz strolled along at his side, posture loose and relaxed, when Sam knew he was anything but.

“How was New York?” Thundercracker asked, falling into step beside them.

Sam snorted in response. “Oh, it was great. We saw Times Square, went on the Late Show, fled for our lives through the city—you know, typical tourist stuff.”

Thundercracker chuckled as they neared the doors on the opposite side of the loading bay. The light from the corridor spilled into the darkened room, illuminating the far side of the hangar.

“Did you buy a postcard?” The Seeker asked, dryly.

“It slipped my mind.” Sam replied, slanting him a half-smile, “Next time.”

Their conversation petered off as they left the hangar. Sam’s mouth went dry and his pulse ratcheted even higher at the sight of the familiar corridors. The embossed metal floors shone dully in the low light, reflecting Sam’s distorted reflection back at him. He took a slow breath in through his nose, releasing it from his mouth.

Bumblebee shifted forward, leaning into his mind. _//I’m here, Sam.//_

Sam turned his head, glancing up at Bumblebee to find the scout staring back at him. _//Thanks.//_

In front of them, Starscream half-turned, giving Sam a contemptuous look.

“Are you about to have some kind of episode?” He asked, “Your blood pressure is sky-high.”

Sam bristled with anger as he narrowed his eyes at the Seeker.

“Gee, I wonder why that could be?” He bit out.

“Are you still hung-up on that?” Starscream scoffed, “It was over four years ago.”

Sam flushed hotly in response, opening his mouth to say something decidedly un-Prime-like, when Jazz pressed against his mind. The touch was _cautious_ and _censorious_ in equal measures, and it was only then that Sam realized he was being baited. He closed his mouth with considerable effort, before drawing up to his full height and pinning the Seeker with a flat look.

Realizing that his fun was over, Starscream rolled his optics as he turned around and continued down the corridor.

Their procession was a silent one after that, except for the ringing of their footsteps against the metal floor. They passed doors and hatchways as they walked, but Sam didn’t recognize any of them. He was more than a little thankful for that fact—he dreaded the idea of seeing Megatron’s quarters or the medical bay again. They turned another corner, and the ground bridge hangar came into sight at the end of the hall. Sam quickened his step, eager to be off the ship as soon as physically possible.

The ground bridge hangar was small, in comparison to the rest of the _Nemesis_ , and it was empty except for the circular archway located in the center of the room. Sam’s step faltered at the sight of Soundwave standing at the control panel, his interface cables plugged into the machine. The second-in-command was regarding them closely, his visor tracking them with as they crossed the room.

Sam struggled to keep the fear off his face, but he knew it was a moot point—Starscream had already underscored the fact that his body was betraying his anxiety.

“Prime has communicated the ready signal.” Soundwave said, in the same flat modulation that he was renowned for.

Starscream waved a servo impatiently. “Fine. Send them on their way—the sooner they’re off my ship, the better.”

A moment later, a blue-green miasma exploded to life in the archway. The swirling void sent light and color reflecting off the polished metal walls. Sam stared at the ground bridge for a long moment, suddenly uncertain. They could have been transporting them to the bottom of the ocean, for all he knew.

 _//It’s alright, Sam. The coordinates have been verified.//_ Bumblebee assured him.

Sam set his shoulders and, with a great deal of trepidation, walked straight through the archway. There was a moment of profound disorientation as the neural-network vanished in the empty void of quantum-space, before it came rushing back to him as he stepped out the other side. With its return came a dizzying rush of _sensation_ and _impression_ that left Sam reeling. The neural-network was alight with activity, unlike anything he had experienced before. There were dozens of unfamiliar spark signatures in his immediate vicinity, and the combined effect was almost overwhelming.

Carter and Lennox stepped through the ground bridge after him. The two men seemed to sense his disorientation, for they urged him down the ramp and away from the archway. It wasn’t until Bumblebee and the others came through the bridge that he realized the hangar was empty except for Optimus Prime, who was standing ready to receive them.

“What's going on?” Sam asked, incredulously, as he pressed a hand against his forehead.

Optimus inclined his helm, as though in a silent apology. “I must speak with you.”

The grim tone of his voice sent a thrill of apprehension down Sam’s spine. He instinctively reached for Ratchet’s familiar glow—only to draw up short. The medic’s mental presence was restless and unhappy, a fact that was at odds with the flashes of _excitement_ and _joy_ that he could glean from the neural-network.

“What’s happened?” He asked, flatly.

Optimus knelt down, extending a servo towards him. Sam stared at it for a long moment, wrestling with the impulse to demand an answer _right now, dammit_ , before he climbed onto the proffered palm. The Autobot leader straightened to his full height, tucking Sam close to his chassis, and then he transformed around him. Sam was squeezed and buffeted, moved this way and that, but it was mere moments before he found himself sitting in the Peterbilt’s front seat.

The Autobot leader shifted into drive as soon as he finished his transformation sequence, and then he accelerated out of the hangar. Sam leaned over to stare into the large rear-view mirror, only to notice that Bumblebee was following behind them. He turned his attention inwards, and was immediately met with a swell of _tension_ and _uncertainty_ across their bond-space.

“What the hell is going on, Optimus?” He demanded.

The Autobot leader was silent for a long while—so long that Sam thought he might not reply. Eventually, he ex-vented a quiet sigh.

“The spacebridge was activated by an Autobot battleship named the _Lost Light._ The ship and its crew have since arrived.” He replied.

Sam’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “That’s good… isn’t it?”

It was only because Sam was playing close attention that he noticed the way Optimus’ spark signature _sharpened_ minutely. The Autobot leader said nothing as he passed through the East Quad doors, before accelerating down the bridge at a quick clip.

“The ship was sent to deliver a message.” Optimus continued, ignoring his question, “Sentinel Prime has returned to Cybertron, and his forces have laid waste to the remaining Decepticons there.”

Sam frowned deeply.

“Alright.” He said, slowly, “I’m definitely confused now, because that sounds like great news to me.”

The Autobot leader slowed down as he drove through the West Quad doors, before continuing in the direction of his office.

“Sentinel Prime’s return, and his triumph over Megatron’s soldiers, is momentous news indeed.” Optimus agreed softly, “It means that the war is finally over—at long last.”

The Autobot leader’s voice was solemn, almost grim, and Sam’s stomach bottomed out at the sound of it.

“What’s going on, Optimus?” Sam pleaded, “What aren’t you telling me?”

His question was met by silence as the Peterbilt rolled into his office. Sam felt a touch of _caution_ , and then the truck exploded into motion around him. The solid-looking cabin split apart, panels folded back and peeling away, until Sam found himself dropping into Optimus’ palm. The Autobot leader held him close to his spark for a long moment, before setting him down on top of the large desk that dominated the room.

“Please Sam, sit down.” He said, gesturing towards the padded armchair that Sam had occupied for hours while they talked about Cybertron together.

“I’ll stand.” Sam gritted out in reply, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Optimus inclined his helm in acquiescence as he took his seat. The Autobot leader seemed conflicted, as though he were uncertain where to begin. Sam crossed his arms tightly over his chest and stared him down, waiting for an explanation. It wasn’t until Bumblebee had transformed and came to stand behind him that Optimus provided him one.

“Sentinel Prime was able to access the mainframe from the ruins of the Simfur Temple. He learned of the Battle of Tyger Pax, and the decision I made to send the Allspark into space. The _Lost Light_ has been sent to retrieve the Cube and bring it back to Cybertron.”

Sam could feel the blood draining from his face. “But—but the Cube was destroyed.”

Optimus’ expression was very gentle as he replied. “Yes, Sam, I know.”

“You told them that, right?” Sam demanded, distantly aware that his voice was an octave higher than usual, “You told them the Cube’s gone, right?”

“The Captain has been given a detailed account of what transpired, both in Mission City and in Egypt.” Optimus replied, inclining his helm, “He remains undeterred.”

Sam went cold all over, and he thought, for a brief second, that all the air in the room must have disappeared—he couldn’t breathe around the lump that had lodged itself in his throat.

“What do you mean?” He whispered in reply.

The Autobot leader ex-vented a deep sigh. It was a weary sound—weary and remorseful.

“Captain Xaaron wishes to bring you with us when we return to Cybertron.”

Sam’s shock and confusion and dread flashed into ice-cold fear in an instant. “No.”

Optimus’ optics softened with compassion. “Sam, please—“

“No!” He snapped, blood rushing back into his face as he flushed all the way to his hairline, “I’m not going to fucking _Cybertron_!”

Sam was distantly aware of Bumblebee’s tumultuous emotions—anger and shock and joy and concern, all swelling across their bond-space together. It was overwhelming and distracting, and he _shoved_ the scout as hard as he could. The sensations vanished a moment later.

“Please, Sam, listen to me.” Optimus intoned gently, but Sam interrupted him before he could continue.

“There’s nothing to say.” He bit out, “I’m not going to Cybertron—end of discussion.”

Optimus’ expression became pained as he reached out for him. Sam stiffened and jerked away—it was the first time in his life that he felt threatened by the Autobot leader. Prime’s expression grew stricken, as though reading his thoughts, and he slowly lowered his servo to the table.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Sam.” He murmured, softly.

Sam’s heart was galloping inside his chest now—fight or flight, he knew—and he had to take a moment to compose himself before he could reply.

“Are you going to force me?” He managed.

Optimus’ optics were shining with barely restrained emotion. “No, Sam. I am not.”

“Oh, really?” Sam bit out, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Optimus flinched in response, but he didn’t deny the accusation.

“My actions in the aftermath of the Battle of Giza were taken without my knowledge of your role as Prime.” He murmured, “You and I are equals. I cannot command you to accompany us, if you do not wish it.”

Some of Sam’s fear was softened by the sincerity in his voice. “What about the Captain?”

“Captain Xaaron is duty-bound to obey my commands.” He rumbled in reply, “We will return to Cybertron together, and I will explain my actions to Sentinel Prime in person.”

Something about the phrasing of his reply struck Sam as odd. He frowned at the Autobot leader as he asked, suspiciously, “What do you mean ‘ _we_ ’?”

Optimus ex-vented a quiet sigh as he shook his helm. “Sentinel has ordered me to return to Cybertron with my soldiers, and I will comply with his command.”

Sam’s fear and dread were abruptly gone, obliterated by a tidal wave of possessive fury. “You’re not taking Bumblebee away from me.”

He almost didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice—it was strangled and cold, and it wasn’t until the words had left his mouth that he realized they were a threat.

“No, Sam.” Optimus replied, seemingly unoffended by his reaction, “I would not separate you from Bumblebee.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the Autobot leader, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “But?”

“There is no but, Sam.” Optimus rumbled in reply, “He is your bonded—it is his right to remain on Earth, if he wishes.”

The idea that Bumblebee might want to return to Cybertron without him had never even crossed Sam’s mind. He turned, glancing up at his bonded in desperation, but Bumblebee’s expression was hardened with resolve. Sam’s knees went weak in relief at the unspoken support, and he stumbled over to sit in the armchair.

“Thank-you.” Sam murmured, after a long while. Whether he was speaking to Bumblebee or to Optimus, however, he couldn’t say.

Optimus was quiet for a long moment, as though considering his response. “I will not try to dissuade you, if you are determined to stay.” He rumbled, “But you must understand the risk you will be facing.”

Sam’s head came up as he stared at the Autobot leader. “I understand.”

“No, Sam, you must listen to me carefully.” Optimus rumbled, as serious as the grave, “I am leaving a small contingent behind to protect our Energon production. They will not be able to mount a formidable defense, in the event of an attack.”

Sam’s mouth turned down in a frown. “How small, exactly?”

“Beachcomber, Perceptor, Drift, and Ambulon.” Optimus replied.

Sam’s stomach sank a little further with each designation. A geologist, a scientist, a field medic, and a former Decepticon. Drift was the only warframe of the group—the others weren’t even combat builds.

“I see.” Sam replied, numbly.

And he did. Not only would Beachcomber and the others be unable to protect him, in the event of an attack, but his very presence would put them in danger—as it would endanger Carter, and Lennox, and every other person on the island. Shockwave would certainly take advantage of the lapse in their defenses, as soon as he learned about Prime’s departure. Sam would be a sitting duck—and Bumblebee along with him.

His comprehension must have been plain to see, for Optimus inclined his helm in response.

“I am sorry, Sam.” He rumbled, “I know this is a difficult decision.”

Sam stared sightlessly at the Autobot leader, his thoughts whirling too fast for him to marshal.

“How long?” He asked, eventually.

His voice was lifeless and dull-sounding, even to his own ears.

A look of consternation flitted across Prime’s face. “I do not know.”

“Ballpark it for me.” Sam murmured.

Optimus was silent for a long moment. “It will take over a year to travel to Cybertron—longer, if we run into difficulties along the way—and I do not know how long Sentinel will keep us there.”

Sam closed his eyes in pain. “What's the best case scenario?”

Optimus’ mental presence brushed gently against his mind. “Three years, perhaps longer.”

The words were like a knife in his ribs, but he forced himself to nod in response.

“And the worst case scenario?” He asked, softly.

The Autobot leader’s mental presence sharpened with remorse and regret, and Sam knew his answer before he even spoke it aloud.

“In the worst case scenario, we do not return at all.”

And just like that, Sam’s world imploded around him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thank-you so much for your support, guys. It's so motivating!

Sam had no recollection of leaving Prime’s office. He came back to himself an interminable time later, somewhere along the beach. He was sitting in the sun-warmed sand, hands clasped loosely in his lap, as he stared out over the ocean. The water was a perfect, clear turquoise near the shore. It darkened to cerulean further out, past the reefs where the water was deeper.

He took a deep, shuddery breath. The air smelled like saltwater and orchids—clean and fresh and organic. Sam blinked against the sudden sting of tears, and asked, without taking his eyes off the water, “What am I going to do, Bee?”

A shadow fell across the sand as his bonded crouched down beside him. The scout’s mental presence was concerned and unhappy.

“I don’t know.” He murmured in reply.

Sam screwed his eyes shut and fisted his hands in his hair until his scalp ached. He had always known that travel to Cybertron was a distant possibility. Megatron had been defeated, his remaining forces scattered to the stars, and their trade deal with the Canadians would provide all the energon needed to rebuild the dying planet. Still, he had never thought it would happen so soon. He had thought he would have decades, maybe even centuries, to come to terms with leaving Earth.

“Oh my God.” Sam managed, opening his eyes to stare across the water, “What am I going to tell my folks?”

His grandmother was seventy-four years old. His mother and father were in their fifties. Optimus had said that it would be three years before he could hope to see them again. Longer, if one of the spacebridges malfunctioned or they experienced engine troubles in transit. It would be longer still if they returned to Cybertron and Sentinel Prime refused to let him leave again. The older Prime was the rightful leader of the Autobots, a title that Optimus had assumed in his absence, and his word was incontestable.

Sam’s throat thickened with sudden emotion.

“I can’t say good-bye.” He choked out, “Not forever—I’m not that strong.”

Bumblebee whistled at him gently as he shuffled forward, bracketing Sam’s body with his knee struts. His servo was heavy and warm as it pressed against his back, molding to the curve of Sam’s spine.

“It won’t be forever.” He murmured.

Sam’s head pitched forward at the quiet promise in his bonded’s voice.

“You don’t know that.” He whispered, miserably.

Bumblebee shuffled nearer still, until Sam was nestled in the protective embrace of his limbs. Pressed this closely together, he could hear the inner workings of his bonded’s body—the steady _hiss-hush_ of hydraulic fluid, the push-pull of his fuel pump, and the gentle _thrum_ of his spark. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against the warm metal, listening. The sounds were quiet and familiar, and Sam let himself be soothed, if only for a moment. It wasn’t long before his anxiety and grief niggled to the forefront of his mind again, refusing to be ignored.

Sam slanted open his eyes, staring down the length of the beach. It was peaceful and secluded here, with only the cry of seagulls and the distant bustle of the airfield to disturb them.

“If it wasn’t for me…” His voice trailed off as he tried to find the right words, “I mean… if we’d never met… would you be happy right now?”

The question was clumsy, even to his own ears, but Bumblebee understood him anyway. The _denial_ and _vehemence_ that flashed across their bond in response was almost overwhelming in its intensity.

“I would choose you over Cybertron, no matter the cost.” He replied fiercely, “I would have done so, even if we hadn’t bonded.”

Sam closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Bumblebee’s chassis. “You didn’t answer my question—if you had never met me, would you be happy? Returning home?”

Bumblebee hesitated for a long moment. “That’s a loaded question.”

“I don’t think it is.” Sam replied, quietly.

The scout whistled at him in Cybertronian, a rolling series of glyphs and signifiers. Sam recognized _beloved-onto-Primus_ and _Cybertron_ , but the rest were lost on him. Bumblebee hooked a digit under his chin, angling Sam’s head up until he met his gaze.

“I do not wish to imagine a multiverse where we had not met.” He murmured, evading the question for a second time.

Sam’s smile was watery and thin in return. “It’s fine, Bee. I get it. I really do—home’s home.”

Bumblebee’s expression softened perceptibly.

“The flaw in your reasoning is not its conclusion, but it’s premise.” He replied, settling his servos on Sam’s shoulders, “If we had never met, then the mechanoid returning to Cybertron would be incapable of happiness.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut at the sudden, intense wave of emotion that washed over him. His pulse quickened and his chest ached from the force of it.

“I know I can’t stay.” He managed to get out, his voice catching on the words, “But I don’t know how I’ll say good-bye.”

The words felt like an admission, and Sam supposed they were. He had known that he would be unable to stay on Earth—had known it from the moment he learned about Sentinel Prime’s return. The older Prime had ruled Cybertron since the beginning of the Second Golden Age, and he was not one to be deterred.

“I’ll be with you.” Bumblebee promised, “Every step of the way.”

Sam shivered, despite the heat.

“How long?” He asked softly, “I mean, how much time do I…?”

“The _Ark’s_ departure is scheduled for Wednesday evening.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam’s stomach tightened at the news. He had less than three days to say his good-byes and put his affairs in order. The thought should have spurred him into action, but it left him feeling strangely disconnected instead.

He stumbled to his feet, brushing the sand off his pants.

“I’m going for a walk.” He said. “I need some time to think.”

Bumblebee’s antennae perked up in concern.

“Would you like some company?” He offered.

Sam shook his head. “No, thank-you. I want to be alone for a little while.”

Bumblebee whistled at him gently, but he made no move to follow when Sam started off towards the road. The sun had risen to its zenith while they had been sitting on the beach, and Sam was sweating in earnest by the time he clambered over the rocky berm. He wiped his face with his sleeve, before shoving his hands in his pockets. It was cooler here, in the shade of the palms and coconut trees, but it was more humid as well. He made his way along the dusty road back towards the base. The vegetation thinned as he neared the Downtown, and it wasn’t long before he could see the airfield in the distance. The _Ark_ sat gleaming golden on the tarmac, surrounded by crates and equipment. The sight of it gave him a painful twist in his belly.

As Sam passed the southern airfield, the _Lost Light_ also came into view. It was a bulky ship with silver plating and red hash marks on its bow. Whereas the _Ark_ was sleek and graceful, a thing of aesthetics as well as function, the _Lost Light_ was a behemoth. There was no doubt in his mind which of the two ships had been designed primarily for combat.

He continued down the road towards the perimeter fence, lost in his thoughts. He would need to figure out how to meet his folks. He wasn’t about to tell them that he was leaving, maybe forever, over a telephone line. He wasn’t sure what to do about his grandmother. She had steadfastly refused to use the ground bridge, despite his reassurances, and he didn’t have time to drive to Ferndale. The dilemma occupied him all the way back to the Hive.

As the lift settled into the floor of the receiving room, Sam realized that it was busier than he had ever seen it before. The room was teeming with NEST soldiers, administrative staff, and forklifts loaded with heavy-looking crates. Sam made his way towards the bridge entrance, head lowered and hands in his pockets. If he didn’t make eye contact with anyone, then he wouldn’t need to speak with them.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realize where he was headed until he was already standing in front of Ratchet’s medical bay. Sam angled his head, looking up at the massive red doors, as he wrestled with the impulse to enter. The Chief Medical Officer was probably busy, with all the preparations underway for their departure.

 _//I am.//_ Ratchet agreed, _//But your presence would not be an imposition.//_

Sam couldn’t help the faint smile that spread across his face at the medic’s wry tone. Shaking his head, he stepped through the narrow opening between the hangar doors… and then he pulled up short. The medical bay had been largely disassembled in his absence. The workbenches along the far wall were empty, and all but six berths had been removed—including the berth that contained all of the human-purposed medical equipment. The floor-to-ceiling cabinets against the back wall were open, and First Aid was carefully stacking supplies into a large crate. A dozen other crates were arranged in a semi-circle around him. The sight of the normally meticulous hangar in such disarray gave Sam a physical ache in his chest.

“Is this him?” An unfamiliar voice asked, softly.

Sam turned in the direction of the voice to find two mechanoids standing next to Ratchet. The first mechanoid was tall and broad shouldered, with a chassis design similar to the Chief Medical Officer. The second mechanoid was shorter and lithe, plated in the red and white of a field medic.

“It is.” Ratchet replied matter-of-factly.

The red and white mechanoid tilted his helm, regarding Sam with open curiosity. “Remarkable. He looks just like a newspark.”

Ratchet’s expression cooled by an order of degrees. “He _is_ a newspark.”

“He’s yours, then?” The larger mechanoid asked, “I wasn’t sure. I thought perhaps that Prime had claimed him.”

The mechanoid’s voice was very soft, almost wistful, and he was staring at Sam with an intensity that was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable.

“I initiated the Creator bond, yes.” Ratchet acknowledged, before turning to look at Sam, “Allow me to introduce Meltdown and Fixit, surgeons.”

He gestured as he spoke, first to the green and yellow mechanoid and then to the shorter red one. Meltdown lowered into a crouch until they were more of an eye-level with one another.

“Hello Sam.” He murmured softly, “It is very nice to meet you.”

The words were spoken with such tenderness that Sam could feel himself flushing in response. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to turn around and walk straight back into the hallway. It wasn’t until Ratchet gave him a sharp look that he realized he hadn’t replied to the greeting.

“Hello Meltdown.” He managed, “It’s nice to meet you too.”

Fixit was still regarding him with curiosity, his optics spiralling smaller and wider as he looked Sam over from head to toe.

“Your heart rate, blood pressure, and cortisol production have increased.” He observed mildly, “Are you uncomfortable?”

Sam’s flush deepened as he asked, more sharply than he intended, “Do you want an honest answer to that question?”

Meltdown chuckled as he straightened up, fixing Ratchet with a wry look. “Oh yeah, he’s one of yours alright.”

Ratchet ex-vented an unimpressed snort, before turning to regard Sam. “I believe I can deduce the reason for your visit.”

Sam couldn’t suppress his grimace as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. He knew it made him look as defensive and uncomfortable as he felt.

“Yeah.”

Ratchet inclined his helm, and then he turned to look at Meltdown and Fixit. “I will see you in the infirmary when I have finished here.”

It was a clear dismissal, and the two medics inclined their helms deeply in response. Meltdown transformed first, folding down into his alt mode with the grind and clang of metal on metal. It was an awkward, uncomfortable looking transformation, but when he was finished, there was a yellow-green Search and Rescue vehicle resting on its wheels. Sam’s eyebrows rose up to his hairline in surprise—it was virtually identical to Ratchet’s alt mode. Fixit’s transformation was faster and smoother, and a moment later, there was a red and white ambulance parked at his side.

Sam stepped aside as the two vehicles accelerated towards the hangar doors, which rumbled open of their own accord. As Meltdown and Fixit drove past him, they brushed against his mind in farewell. The touches were gentle and respectful, almost benedictory in nature, and Sam watched them disappear into the corridor before turning to look at Ratchet.

“What was that all about?” He asked, making his way deeper into the hangar.

Ratchet shrugged. “Which part?”

“All of it.” Sam replied, pushing his hands into his pockets, “Why was his transformation like that?”

Ratchet crouched down as Sam approached, settling a servo on the floor in a clear invitation. Sam climbed onto the proffered palm with practised ease, steadying himself as Ratchet straightened up and deposited him on the nearby workbench.

“Meltdown is old and battle-worn. It has been too long since he’s had any proper maintenance.” Ratchet replied.

“Is he older than you?” Sam asked dryly.

Ratchet gave him an unimpressed look. “Yes, by many mega-vorns.”

Sam considered that, and then he asked, “Why does he have the same alt mode as you?”

“Meltdown does not care what alt mode he uses, so long as it serves its function. He asked to use my vehicle schematics, rather than go through the inconvenience of locating another Earth alt, and I agreed. We will not be on Earth long enough for the distinction to be important.”

Sam flinched away from the words, which brought the situation rushing back to him. It made his heart start beating faster in his chest, and he had to swallow against the panic that thickened his throat.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Ratch.” He managed, voice low and strangled, “I really don’t.”

Ratchet was watching him closely, his expression impossible to read.

“It will be difficult for you.” He acknowledged, “I am sorry that you have been placed in this situation.”

Sam barked a harsh laugh as he folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah, it sucks.”

“It does.” Ratchet agreed, inclining his helm.

Sam started pacing across the workbench in an effort to cool some of the anxiety churning up his insides. Ratchet watched him in silence, letting Sam turn the situation over in his head without prompting or comment.

“What am I going to eat?” Sam demanded at last, breaking the silence, “Or drink? Or _breathe_? Does Cybertron even have an atmosphere?”

Ratchet, imminently practical as he was, answered his questions in rank order. “The _Ark_ is fully self-contained and climate-controlled. It will be cooler than you’re accustomed to, but well within the requirements for organic life. Cybertron has a thin atmosphere that is composed primarily of carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, nitrogen, and oxygen. It is not breathable.”

Sam scoffed derisively. “So what, I’ll just live on the _Ark_ the whole time I’m on Cybertron?”

“If necessary.” Ratchet replied.

“Oh, this is just wonderful.” Sam snapped, his temper rising in pace with his anxiety, “I can’t wait to spend my indefinite future cooped up on an alien spaceship in the middle of _nowhere_.”

Sam felt a thrum of disapproval across their bond-space, which only served to stoke his temper higher.

“Your sarcasm isn’t helpful.” Ratchet admonished, gruffly.

“Well, neither are you!” Sam bit back.

Ratchet stilled from head to toe as he pinned Sam with a cool look.

“I beg your pardon?”

The tone of his voice was deceptively mild, and Sam flushed all the way to his hairline. He turned his head, unable to look the medic in the eye.

“Sorry.” He murmured.

Ratchet stared at him for a moment longer, letting the rebuke linger, before he spoke. “You will not be _cooped up_ for the duration of your stay. The environmental mask will allow you freedom of movement, and Prime has tasked Grapple and Wheeljack with finding a solution to the housing problem.”

Sam sighed softly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What about food and water?”

“We have been stockpiling supplies for the last five years. The fare will be limited, compared to what you’re used to, but we have taken your preferences into account.”

Sam turned, glancing up at Ratchet in surprise. “What does that mean?”

“It means what it means.” The medic replied with a shrug, “We have flash-frozen an assortment of foodstuffs you prefer, taking nutritional value and longevity into consideration, and stored it aboard the _Ark._ We have the supplies for seven years—longer, if we are forced to ration them.”

Sam frowned in confusion. “You have the space to store all that?”

“The _Ark_ is a large ship.” Ratchet replied wryly.

“But what if…” Sam’s voice trailed off, grief and anxiety and denial making his voice tight, “What if we don’t come back?”

Ratchet’s mental presence brushed against him. It was a fleeting touch, there and gone again, but the pulse of _reassurance_ that remained behind was comforting.

“We have stockpiled seeds and hydroponics equipment as well.” Ratchet replied. "If we are unable to return, then we will rely on horticulture."

Sam didn’t know whether to feel heartbroken or relieved. “It sounds like you’ve thought of everything.”

Ratchet’s expression softened as he pressed two digits against Sam’s chest, stilling his restless pacing. “You have only had several hours to come to terms with this, but we have been preparing for a return to Cybertron for years. We have overlooked nothing in regards to your comfort and safety.”

Sam forced a brittle smile. “It’s a long-shot to say that I’ll be comfortable, Ratch.”

“It is my hope that you will be, eventually.” He replied, “I know that Cybertron is not Earth, but you could be happy there.”

Sam’s breath caught at the tone of Ratchet’s voice. It was soft and gentle, and it made something _ache_ inside him. Cybertron would never be home, not so long as he was being forced to reside there—and not so long as his parents were still alive. He kept the thought to himself, rather than speaking it aloud. It seemed disrespectful and selfish.

“No, Sam. Not selfish.” Ratchet murmured, “Human.”

The words from anyone else might have come across as an insult, but Sam could feel Ratchet’s compassion through their bond. He sighed heavily, shoulders curling forward as he pushed his hands back into his pockets.

“I gotta say good-bye to my folks.” He managed.

“Yes, I know.” Ratchet replied, “Would you like to meet them here or in Jasper?”

Sam gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t think the location is going to matter, Ratch.”

“I will make the arrangements.” Ratchet promised, “Did you want to tell them yourself? Or would you prefer for me to break the news?”

Sam was caught off-guard by the question, and he didn’t know how to respond. The thought of explaining the situation to his parents was beyond horrible, but it seemed cowardly to push the responsibility—and the blame—onto Ratchet. It wasn’t his fault.

“It is not your fault, either.” Ratchet rumbled in reply, “The situation was set into motion by circumstances beyond your control.”

Sam scoffed softly. “Yeah, I know. Optimus made that pretty clear.”

Ratchet frowned, pressing the faintest glimmer of _disapproval_ across their bond.

“It is not Prime’s fault, either.” He said, like a chastisement, “The blame lies squarely at Sentinel’s feet.”

There was something about his tone, restrained and cool, that made Sam’s heart skip a beat. He angled his head so he could look the medic in the face as he asked, hesitantly, “What’s he like? Sentinel, I mean?”

Ratchet’s mental presence became closed-off and unreadable. “I have not seen or spoken to Sentinel Prime in almost two million years.”

Sam frowned at the strange non-answer. “Well, what was he like back then?”

Ratchet stared down at him for a long moment, as though weighing his response. Eventually, he grudgingly replied.

“Sentinel succeeded Nominus Prime.” Ratchet said, “As you know, Nominus was responsible for a dark chapter of Cybertron’s history. Sentinel was chosen as Prime after Nominus’ assassination in an effort to repair the rifts between the city-states.”

Sam nodded slowly. “Yes, I remember. He was from Iacon but his Creators were Vosian and Kaonian.”

“That’s correct.” Ratchet replied, inclining his helm, “Sentinel Prime was an efficient, calculated leader. He reversed the Clampdown and disbanded the slums of Kalis. He was popular with the upper and lower castes alike—for a time.”

Sam’s chest tightened in trepidation, and he crossed his arms in an attempt to hide his unease. “What happened?”

“Sentinel was a firm believer in communitarianism, and as a result, he supported the caste-system. He believed, as many in the Senate did, that the individual was less important than the community, and that personal sacrifice was sometimes necessary for the common good.”

Sam’s mouth turned down in a frown. “Is that what started the war?”

“Yes and no.” Ratchet replied. “The Decepticon movement rose up against the cruelties of the caste system, true, but the war did not begin until Megatron executed the members of the Senate. By that time, Sentinel Prime had already been missing for mega-vorns.”

“Where did he go?” Sam asked.

“If Captain Xaaron is to be believed, he went on a secret pilgrimage to find the Forge of Solus Prime.” Ratchet replied.

“Did he find it?”

Ratchet ex-vented a loud snort. “Of course he did not find it—it doesn’t exist.”

Sam frowned faintly as he considered all that he had been told. “The war against the caste system lasted over a million years. What’s going to happen now that Sentinel’s back?”

Ratchet’s expression became unreadable as he shook his helm. “I do not know. There are too few of us left alive to establish a functioning caste-system, and whatever else one might say about Sentinel, he is no fool. We will need to find a way forward if Cybertron is to be saved.”

The tone of Ratchet’s voice, thoughtful and pensive, was perhaps as close to _hopeful_ as Sam had ever heard him sound. It caused a seed of something uncomfortable to plant itself in his chest—a thing of guilt and grief and shame. He was so caught up in what Sentinel’s return had meant for _him_ that he hadn’t really considered what it meant for _them._

Ratchet was wrong—he was very selfish.

* * *

Sam said good-bye to his parents on Wednesday morning.

He met them at the ground bridge hangar, his stomach twisting itself in knots. He hadn’t slept for more than a few hours at a time since Bumblebee had shaken him awake in the hotel room, and it was beginning to wear on him.

His bonded stood at the control panel, watching as he tried and failed to maintain some semblance of calm. When he received the ready signal from Jasper, Bumblebee turned and activated the ground bridge. Sam braced himself as the archway exploded in a riot of light and color, and a moment later, his parents were walking through the swirling vortex. They glanced around the hangar, before their eyes settled on him, and then they started in his direction.

Sam tried desperately to think of something to say. He had rehearsed it in his head a hundred times, but all words abandoned him at the sight of his mother’s stricken face.

“I’m sorry.” He choked out as they stopped in front of him, “Ma, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Sammy.” His mother breathed, pressing her palms against the sides of his face, “Don’t apologize, sweetheart.”

His father’s eyes were red-rimmed and watery as he wrapped one arm around his mother’s shoulders and the other arm around Sam’s. It was an awkward hug, given the differences in their heights and builds, but Sam leaned into it gratefully. He slipped one arm around his mother’s waist, the other around his father’s, and held on for all he was worth.

His mother carded her fingers through his hair and pressed a kiss against his forehead.

“I’m so proud of you.” She murmured, “So proud.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and pulled her closer against him. _This isn't happening.  
_

“You be safe, Sam. Do you hear me?” His father asked roughly, “You do what you need to do, and then you come home to us.” His voice broke on the end of his sentence, and he had to compose himself before he could continue, “I don’t care how long it takes. We’ll be here waiting for you.”

Sam’s breath hitched in his chest, and his mother pressed another kiss against his forehead before pulling away and grasping him by the shoulders.

“Sammy, look at me.” She instructed, and although her voice was emotional it was firm, “Look at me, sweetheart.”

Opening his eyes and looking his mother in the face without losing all of his composure was the hardest thing that Sam had ever done in his life.

“If the worst happens— No, stop, let me finish.” His mother said, forestalling his protests, “If the worst happens and you can’t come home, then we want you to be happy. Do you hear me, Samuel James? Don’t worry about us.”

“Of course I’m going to worry about you.” Sam choked out, “I love you.”

His mother’s face softened with affection and sorrow. “I know you do, sweetheart. We love you too—it’s why we want you to be happy, no matter what happens. Promise me.”

Sam’s vision blurred with tears. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Yes, you can.” His mother replied, brushing the moisture away with the pads of her thumbs, “You must promise me that you’ll try.”

Sam didn’t know if it was a promise that he could keep, but he knew that his mother needed the closure, and that was all there was to it. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and nodded, once. “Alright, Ma. I promise.”

“That’s my boy.” She murmured, pressing another kiss against his temple, “That’s my Sammy.”

They stayed together until the late afternoon, wandering the grounds without any real purpose. They spent time at Simpson Point and strolled along the beach. He held his mother’s hand as they walked, her fingers interlaced with his. None of them said a word. They were afforded their privacy for the duration of the afternoon, but as the sun began to sink towards the horizon, Sam felt an apologetic _touch_ against his mind.

He steeled himself, as well as he was able, before saying, “We have to go back."

Their walk back to the Hive was strange—passing both too quickly and seeming suspended in time, all at once. He gripped his mother’s hand a little tighter as they stepped onto the lift, and she squeezed his hand in return. As they descended through the floor and into the Hive, he was surprised to find that the receiving room was completely empty. He was thankful for the privacy—he felt like he was going to fall apart at any moment.

They made their way towards the ground bridge hangar in silence. It wasn’t until they stepped through the wide double doors to the sight of the empty archway that Sam’s heart climbed into his throat.

“Ma.” He choked out, turning to look at her, “I love you so much.”

Her smile was warm and tender in return. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut. “Dad…”

“You’re alright, Sammy.” His father husked softly, “Everything’s alright.”

He stood there for a long moment, struggling not to cry, when a polite cough came from behind them. Sam half-turned, glancing over his shoulder at Dave Carter, who was standing a short distance away. The Chief of Staff was watching them with a sympathetic look on his face.

“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky, it’s time.” He murmured.

Sam was overwhelmed by the sudden sense of deja-vu, but his mother pulled him into her arms before he could speak.

“Be good, sweetheart.” She whispered in farewell.

All at once, Sam disconnected from reality. He lifted his arms and wrapped them around her shoulders. “I will, Ma.”

His mother pressed a kiss against his cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He heard himself reply.

His father clapped him on the shoulder before pulling him down into a tight hug. “Be safe, Sam.” He gritted out, breath warm against his ear, “We’ll be here when you come home.”

“I will, Pops.” Sam murmured, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Sam.” His father replied.

“Here Sam, take this.” His mother urged, pressing a photograph into his hands, “A little piece of home for the road.”

Sam looked down at the photograph, only to recognize it immediately. He had taken the picture last Christmas at his grandmother’s house, while his parents had been decorating the tree. His mother was wearing an atrocious knitted sweater complete with blinking lights, and his father was smiling at her like she was the most beautiful person in the world. Sam had given it to her for their anniversary—she had loved it.

“Thanks Ma.” He murmured, pressing the photograph over his heart, “I mean it.”

His mother’s face creased with emotion, before she stepped back and clasped his father’s hand. “Good-bye, sweetheart.”

Sam’s chest ached with grief, but he forced himself to smile.

“Good-bye, Ma.” He said with all the composure he could muster, “I’ll see you soon.”

He watched, as though in a daze, as Carter escorted his parents to the ground bridge. Bumblebee inclined his head as they approached. His mother reached up a hand to pat his faceplates and murmured something too softly for Sam to hear. Bumblebee inclined his helm again, as though in agreement, before he stepped back and activated the ground bridge controls. For the second time that day, a blue-green miasma erupted in the archway, spilling light and color across the walls. His mother turned, waving good-bye over her shoulder, and then his parents walked towards the swirling vortex.

A moment later, they were gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** I was blown away by the reaction to last chapter. Thanks so much for your support, guys! It means the world to me.

Sam watched as the blue-green miasma collapsed in on itself, disappearing from existence. The ensuing silence seemed to echo around the hangar, as loud as the ground bridge itself. He stared at the empty archway for a long time, eyes burning and throat tight, as he tried to pull himself together.

“Sam?” Carter asked, softly, “Are you alright?”

Sam startled as he realized that Carter had crossed the room to stand by his side. The older man was watching him closely, brow furrowed with concern. It took considerable effort for Sam to dredge up the requisite energy to reply.

“No, Dave.” He murmured, “I’m really not.”

Carter’s face creased with sympathy as he reached out, clasping Sam’s shoulder and giving him a little squeeze.

“C’mon.” He urged, “Let’s take a walk.”

Sam let himself be turned around and herded towards the door. Bumblebee made to follow after them, but a sharp shake of Dave’s head had him stop in his tracks. Sam could feel the weight of the scout’s gaze on his back as Carter led him into the corridor. The East Quad was a bustle of activity, with crates and equipment being ferried towards the bridge. Sam and Carter fell into step with the stream of people, walking side by side. Men and women nodded to them as they passed, and Carter returned their polite greetings with a nod of his own. Sam said nothing, walking with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his eyes cast downward. It wasn’t until they were making their way down the bridge towards the receiving room that Carter finally spoke.

“I’m sorry this happened.” He said, glancing sidelong at Sam, “I know it’s a lot to process.”

Sam huffed a laugh that was entirely devoid of humor. “Yeah. It is.”

They were silent for another twenty meters or so, before Carter turned to look at him. “It won’t be forever, Sam.”

Bumblebee had made a similar promise to him three days ago, after Prime had explained the situation to them, and Sam responded in kind.

“You don’t know that.”

Carter seemed to consider him for a moment before he replied. “No, I suppose I don’t, but I take it on faith.”

Sam looked at him and asked, skeptically, “Faith?”

“Yes, faith.” Carter agreed, stepping aside to make room for two men carrying a long, narrow crate between them, “Prime would move mountains for you. I know he'll do everything in his power to see you home again.”

Sam was silent as they walked through the receiving room doors. The cavernous space was once again filled with people, and the sound of shouts and machinery echoed around the room. Carter led him along the wall all the way to the lift. The red square painted on the floor to denote its edges was already full of people, some standing so closely together that they were pressed chest to back with one another. It was clear that there wasn’t any room left, even from a distance, but a cluster of corpsman spotted them as they approached and quickly stepped off the lift.

“Here, sir.” One of them said, gesturing towards the vacant spot, “Take our place.”

Carter gave a perfunctory nod as he stepped onto the lift. “Thank-you, Weiss.”

The corpsman inclined her head, before standing aside to wait her turn. Sam stepped onto the lift, taking his place beside Carter. He was sure that he wasn’t imagining the furtive glances and sidelong looks that were being directed his way, but no one approached him or said anything.

 _Small mercies._ He thought.

The warning buzzer sounded a moment before the lift gave a jarring shudder and began to rise. Sam watched as the people and equipment below them grew smaller, before disappearing altogether as they passed through the holoform ceiling. The bunker was similarly busy, with a crowd of people waiting to get onto the lift, including a small forklift that looked fit for a warehouse. Carter waited long enough for the perimeter lights to flash green, and then he was guiding Sam towards the double doors on the opposite side of the hangar. Sam followed along in his wake, so lost in his thoughts that he never even thought to ask where they were going.

The sun had set since Sam was last outside, turning the sky a remarkable shade of golden orange. There were fair weather cumulus clouds gathered at the horizon, almost navy blue against the fading light. The temperature had cooled off as well, now that the sun had set, and there was a pleasant breeze coming off the ocean. Sam took a deep breath, trying to memorize the smell of salt water and diesel in the air—he would miss it, when he was gone.

Carter made his way across the parking lot in the direction of the shoreline. Sam followed at his side, staring mindlessly out over the water. They climbed over the grassy dunes and started down the other side. Sand, loosened by their footfalls, skittered down the embankment with each step.

“Which way?” Carter asked, looking up and down the beach.

Sam lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

Carter considered the options—south to Simpson Point or north to Eclipse Bay. Eventually, the Chief of Staff started walking south, away from the base. Sam followed at his side. They had gotten perhaps a hundred meters or so when Carter turned his head to look at him.

“I’m ready whenever you are.”

Sam glanced at him in confusion. “What?”

Carter’s face caught the dying light well enough for Sam to see his half-smile. “You can take all the time you need, but you’re not getting on that ship until you talk to me.”

Sam’s throat thickened at the compassion in his voice, and he was forced to look away lest he see any of that compassion reflected on his face.

“I don’t know what to say, Carter.” He said, voice rough, “It is what it is.”

Carter stared at him considerately for a long moment, before he shrugged. “I’ve got all night. Take your time.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh. “I don’t think Optimus would agree with you.”

“Prime named me his head-of-state in his absence.” Dave replied with a wry smile, “Consider it my first official act of office.”

Sam laughed again, weak but genuine. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

Carter chuckled, before sliding his hands into his pockets and exhaling a deep sigh. His expression seemed contemplative, almost pensive. They made it halfway to the bend in the shoreline before either of them spoke again.

“The Autobots need energon—Earth has it.” Carter said, breaking the silence, “You’ll be back before you know it.”

The words made anxiety tighten in the pit of Sam’s stomach. He considered his response, turning it over in his mouth until he was certain that his voice wouldn’t crack.

“If I don’t… my parents…” He swallowed against the lump in his throat, before turning to look the older man in the face, “Promise me you’ll look after them.”

Carter’s expression softened with understanding. “Of course I will. I promise.”

Sam nodded faintly as he turned, staring down the expanse of sandy beach ahead of them. He could hear the sounds of the airfield in the distance, carrying across the breeze. The thought made him almost nauseous with mingled nerves.

“You’re going to be fine, Sam.” Carter said, pulling him out of his anxiety-spiral, “And Diego Garcia will be here when you get back.”

Sam was silent for a long while, just putting one foot in front of the other. When they reached the bend in the shoreline, he slowed to a stop. It was almost full dark now and the stars were beginning to appear overhead. He craned his neck, searching first for the Little Dipper and then the Hadean star. It stood out against the firmament—glinting and lovely. They stood in silence for a long while, watching as the stars came out.

“I’m scared, Dave.” He murmured, eventually.

Dave reached out, clasping him on the shoulder. His grip was firm and warm. “I know, Sam. I would be too.”

The older man’s voice was sincere, and although it was a simple affirmation, it made something unclench inside of his chest. Sam turned his head, catching Carter’s gaze and giving him a small, appreciative smile. Dave smiled back at him in turn.

They stayed there until long after the stars had finished coming out. Sam didn’t say anything else and Carter didn’t press him. The silence that stretched between them was companionable, disturbed only by the sound of waves breaking on the shore. Eventually, Sam knew that he couldn’t put it off any longer. He sighed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and turning to look at the road.

“I guess we should go.” He said.

Carter nodded slowly. “I suppose so. Are you ready?”

He wasn’t sure whether Dave was asking if Sam was ready to leave, ready to say good-bye, or ready for whatever was going to happen next. It didn’t matter, really. His answer was the same.

“I don’t know.” He replied, “I hope so.”

Dave’s face broke out in a soft smile. “I have every confidence in you, Sam.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, but before he could reply, Carter stepped close, pulling him into a hug. Sam went still in surprise, before he sagged against the older man and hugged him back. Carter held him until Sam stepped away, and then he clapped him on the shoulder.

“Alright, let’s go.” He said, “They will be waiting.”

Sam’s lips twitched up in a smile. “How late are we?”

“A Prime is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to.” Carter quoted with a half-smile as they started towards the road. The Lord of the Rings reference made Sam bark a genuine laugh.

“I think Prowl would take exception to that.” He grinned.

Carter glanced down at his wristwatch before rolling his shoulders in a shrug. “Cybertron is approximately 30,000 light years away. They can handle a two-hour delay.”

They made their way up the beach and over the sandy embankment. Sam was unsurprised to find Bumblebee parked on the side of the road. He quirked a wan smile at the Camaro, whose headlights turned on as they approached, cutting a swath through the darkness. Sam trailed his fingers over the glossy bonnet as he circled around the front of the car. Both doors opened in unison, and Sam and Carter climbed into the cab together.

“Thanks.” Sam murmured as he settled into his seat.

Bumblebee pressed _affection_ and _understanding_ back at him as he pulled the doors shut behind them. A moment later, the Camaro reversed in a tight two-point turn and started off towards the airfield. The headlights illuminated the long road ahead, but it didn’t penetrate the dense vegetation on either side of them. It didn’t matter—Sam wasn’t sightseeing. His attention was fixed on the floodlights in the distance. The Camaro rocked on its shocks as the road transitioned from packed dirt to pavement, and then they were accelerating across the airfield. The _Ark_ was lit-up in its full glory, with every window and beacon light visible even from a distance. The ship grew larger as they approached, until it seemed to blot out the night’s sky.

Optimus was standing at the bottom of the loading ramp with an unknown mechanoid at his side. The stranger was shorter than Prime, plated in the same gold hue as the _Ark_ itself, and he was watching their approach with sharp optics. Bumblebee parked a short distance away, opening both of his doors as soon as he came to a stop. Sam took a long, shaky breath and then he climbed out of the car. Carter followed behind him, and as soon as they were clear, Bumblebee rolled back several meters and transformed into his bipedal mode.

Sam pushed his hands into his pockets as he trailed over towards the former Autobot leader. “Sorry for holding things up.”

Prime’s optics were very bright as he shook his head in reply. “Your apology is unnecessary, Sam. Are you ready to depart?”

Sam couldn’t resist the grimace that twisted his mouth at the question. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

Optimus inclined his helm, before turning and gesturing towards the gold colored mechanoid. “Sam, this is Emirate Xaaron, Captain of the _Lost Light._ Captain, it is my honor to introduce Sam Witwicky.”

The Captain inclined his helm deeply in response. “I am honoured to serve, Prime. The _Lost Light_ and its crew will see you safely back to Cybertron.”

The affirmation gave Sam a painful twist in his chest, and he couldn’t prevent the flush that spread across his face. It was only the realization that the Captain was staring at him, as though in expectation, that spurred him to reply.

“Thanks.”

The Captain crossed his arm over his chest and bowed deeply at the waist. He held the posture for a weighted moment, before straightening up and stepping out of the way. Sam’s eyes trailed past him to the loading ramp, which led up into the cargo bay. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat and then he turned, looking at Carter.

“Thanks for everything, Dave.” He murmured.

It wasn’t what he wanted to say—he wanted to tell the older man how much he appreciated him, as a friend and a mentor, but he couldn’t get the words out, not if he wanted to keep himself together.

Dave’s face creased with a fond smile. “Anytime, Sam.”

Optimus watched their exchange with an unreadable expression, before inclining his helm towards his Chief of Staff. “I leave Diego Garcia in your capable hands.”

Dave angled his head to look the Autobot leader in the face, as his lips twitched up in a wry smile. “It is my honor to serve, Prime.”

Optimus inclined his helm again as he straightened to his full height. Sam’s heart started beating faster in his chest as he realized the time had come. Bumblebee quickly folded down into his alt mode, rolling forward until his bumper pressed against the backs of Sam’s knees. Sam looked from the _Ark_ to the Camaro, who popped open his door in a silent invitation.

“No thanks, Bee.” He murmured, pressing his hand flat against the hood of the car, “I want to walk.”

Bumblebee _chirruped_ softly as he pressed against Sam's mind, supportive and encouraging. Sam looked at him for a long moment before he turned and started across the pavement. He put one foot in front of the other, focusing on keeping his chin up and his back straight. He knew that his posturing wouldn’t fool anyone—his heart was pounding fit to burst out of his chest and his hands were clammy with anxiety. Still, he stared straight ahead as he stepped onto the loading ramp. He was here by choice—a difficult choice, perhaps, but it was his to make.

The ringing of his shoes against metal was quickly drowned out as he walked up the ramp and into the cargo bay. The ship _thrummed_ with sound, an omnipresent background noise of machinery and ventilation. The large hangar was filled with crates and equipment, leaving a narrow path to the opposite wall. There were four work terminals arranged in pairs on either side of the interior doorway, and although they were presently unmanned, the consoles were lit up with an array of blinking lights. Sam forced himself forward one step at a time as he crossed through the entryway and into the corridor beyond. He was distantly aware of Bumblebee following behind him, but he refused to turn around. He couldn’t.

Sam had not been onboard the _Ark_ since the _Upstart’s_ attack. He had received updates on its repairs and retrofitting, however, including a detailed floor plan and schematics. He cast his mind back, trying to remember its layout. The _Ark_ was composed of five decks and a bridge. The cargo bay was on the fourth deck, as was the sprawling atrium and the brig. Sam paused briefly to orient himself, and then he started off for the atrium. It didn’t take him long to reach it—the atrium was located equidistant between the _Ark’s_ stern and bow.

Sam stopped in the entryway, angling his head to stare up at the ceiling. The atrium extended the full height of the ship, and it had a spiralling walkway that connected all five decks. It was a beautiful space, albeit monstrous in its dimensions.

“Would you like to go to the bridge?” Bumblebee asked, quietly.

Sam half-turned, glancing at his bonded. The scout had transformed into his bipedal mode somewhere between the cargo bay and the atrium, and he was watching Sam with soft optics.

“No. Thank-you.” Sam managed to reply. “I want to go to our room.”

Sam and Bumblebee had been assigned quarters on the second deck—the same deck as Ratchet’s medical bay and the mess hall. He had never seen the room before, but he knew it had once been a berthing hangar for minicons.

“Alright.” Bumblebee agreed, “Do you know the way?”

Sam’s brow furrowed slightly as he shook his head. He knew its relative location, but not how to get there.

Bumblebee’s expression softened in response. He nodded towards the ramp that curved around the atrium. “Let’s go. I will show you.”

Sam followed Bumblebee as he made his way across the large room. Here, deep inside the ship, the sound of machinery and ventilation was louder than it had been in the cargo bay. Bumblebee started climbing the ramp and Sam trailed behind him, staring over the security railing at the atrium floor, located one deck below them. The floor was made of solid glass and etched with whorls and arcs. The glass was lit from beneath with Autobot-blue light, which painted the walls in a cool glow.

They passed the third deck after a few minutes of walking. Sam peered down the long corridor that ended in a T-junction. He remembered that the third deck contained the engine room and munitions reserves, but he couldn’t remember its other functions. They continued on in silence, following the ramp as it curved up to the second floor. Bumblebee gestured for him to make his way down the corridor and deeper into the interior of the ship. Sam did as he was bid, glancing at everything he passed. This part of the ship was vaguely familiar, at least—Sam had seen it when he had visited Ratchet in the medical bay after Ripcord’s attack.

Bumblebee led them down one corridor and then another. Every hallway seemed identical to the last one—metallic walls, etched with aesthetic designs and set with large doors in uneven intervals. They passed the mess hall a short while later, which served to break the monotony. Sam glanced inside as they passed. It was much the same as the mess hall on the _Nemesis_ : long rows of trestle tables in the center of the room, Autobot-sized furniture around its perimeter. There was an energon dispenser against the far wall, and Sam could see the glowing pink liquid through the transparent container.

“There’s a kitchenette for you.” Bumblebee said, gesturing towards the wall opposite the energon storage, “Look.”

Sam turned his head, taking in the sight of a kitchenette arranged near a table and chairs. The furniture looked entirely out of place amongst the Autobot-sized things. The sight gave an uncomfortable twist in his stomach, and he turned his head to look at Bumblebee.

“Can we go?” He asked softly.

Bumblebee nodded and gestured down the length of the corridor. “It is not much farther.”

The _Ark_ was almost a full mile in length, so _not much farther_ ended up taking the better part of ten minutes. Eventually, Bumblebee stopped in front of a nondescript door and motioned towards the keypad set in the wall beside it.

“This is it.” He murmured.

Sam’s eyebrows knit together in consternation as he stared at the keypad. “How do I open the door?”

Bumblebee showed him how to operate the control panel—there wasn’t much to it, really, just a brief combination—and then the door was sliding open to reveal their quarters. Sam stepped inside, his eyes roving over the room. It was a small space, compared to the rest of the ship. The center of the room was arranged with furniture in a layout that was remarkably similar to his apartment on Diego Garcia. There was even a throw blanket tossed over one arm of the couch and a large view screen mounted on the opposite wall, where his television would have been.

His eyes skipped over the room, taking in the knick-knacks and paintings and honest-to-God _braided rug_ on the floor. His eyes finally settled on the back wall. There were a series of four inset bunk beds, the bottommost of which had been made up with pillows and blankets. He wandered over, trailing his fingers across the back of the couch as he passed, and peered into the bottom bunk. The mattress was at waist-level, and although it was small by Autobot standards, it was positively enormous by Sam’s.

“Where are you going to recharge?” He asked, faintly.

Bumblebee had crouched down beside him, and his expression turned fond as he replied. “I will recharge in alt. I have no need of a berth.”

Sam nodded slowly as he glanced around the living space. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“The wash racks are located at the end of the corridor, near the junction. It has been repurposed to include plumbing fixtures.” Bumblebee replied.

“Oh.” Sam replied, unable to think of anything else to say, “That’s good.”

Bumblebee’s optics roved over his face, his antennae perking up in concern. “Are you okay?”

“No.” Sam replied as he moved to sit on the couch, “I’m pretty fucking far from okay, actually.”

Bumblebee whistled at him, a mournful sounding string of glyphs and signifiers. The space between the couch and the wall was large and empty, and the scout was able to crouch down in his bipedal mode. Sam stared straight ahead at the monitor mounted on the wall, but he made no effort to figure out how to turn it on.

“When are we leaving?” Sam asked eventually.

“Shortly.” Bumblebee replied, “We can watch the take-off from the bridge, if you’d like, or we can go back to the mess hall. You haven’t eaten in hours.”

Sam shook his head faintly, before reaching over and pulling the throw blanket into his lap. It was the same one from his apartment—it still had the Bolognese stain on one corner that had resisted even his mother's efforts at removal. He shook it out and pulled it halfway up his chest as he leaned back against the couch.

“Tell me when we take-off.” Sam murmured.

Bumblebee said nothing, but he nodded in response.

They sat together in silence for what felt like a small eternity. It turned out that Sam didn’t need to be told when they took off—the lights in their quarters flashed three times in succession before a jarring shudder traveled through the ship. It was the only indication that they were in motion; otherwise, the ship remained the same. Sam swallowed against the lump that had climbed up his throat, staring resolutely at the wall in front of him.

“How long until we reach the space bridge?” He asked.

“A few hours.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam nodded once, a barely-there dip of his chin, before falling silent again. He could feel Bumblebee’s concern across their bond space, bright and sharp, but he didn’t know how to comfort him. The minutes ticked by in silence, before Sam remembered the photograph that his mother had given him earlier. He planted his feet on the floor, lifting his hips off the sofa and pulling the picture out of his pocket. It had a crease down the center, and Sam smoothed the picture repeatedly with his fingers, angry with himself for his carelessness.

It wasn’t long before the air temperature began dipping inside their quarters. Sam shivered, putting the photograph in his lap and drawing the blanket up to his shoulders. The sound of the engines, the cool temperature, and the smell of recycled air reminded him forcibly of the _Nemesis_. It was not a pleasant association. He glanced down at the picture in his lap and ran his fingers over his parent’s faces. It had been a great Christmas.

He sat there for a long while, staring at nothing in particular. Eventually, he felt a gentle touch inside his mind that was laced with _caution_ and _concern_.

“Brace yourself.” Bumblebee murmured.

Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes. A moment later, the ship shivered forebodingly as reality twisted around him. It was a distinctly disorientating feeling, like seasickness and vertigo all at once, and then reality snapped back into place.

Sam exhaled a long, slow breath as he struggled to control his nausea. “Where are we?”

Bumblebee expression was impossible to decipher. “The Sagittarius cluster.”

Sam turned his head to stare at his bonded. “How far is that?”

“Approximately ninety light years from Earth.” He murmured in reply.

Sam’s stomach twisted at the news. The solar system was approximately six light hours across. At ninety light years, the _Ark_ was already trillions of kilometers away from the Earth. It was, at once, the furthest Sam had ever been away from home—and also the closest he would get again for many years.

The thought caused his throat to close up with sudden emotion. Unable to prevent it, Sam pitched forward and buried his head in his hands as he started to cry. He felt Bumblebee’s answering swell of _distress_ , but he couldn’t lift his head to look at him. He sobbed out his grief, uncaring who might be eavesdropping on him. Let them watch, if they wanted—he didn’t care anymore.

Bumblebee pressed forward into his mind as he cupped one servo against Sam’s back. His mental presence was a steady swell of concern and remorse and affection and sorrow. He stroked one digit down the length of Sam’s spine, crooning at him in softly in Cybertronian. Sam cried and cried until he had no more tears left to shed. When the storm of his crying had finally passed, Bumblebee’s holoform materialized beside him. He took the photograph from Sam’s unresisting fingers and placed it on the coffee table, before helping him to his feet. He half-guided, half-led Sam over to the sleeping alcove and urged him to climb onto the mattress. Sam did as he was told, too numb to offer even a token protest as Bumblebee helped him out of his clothes. It was too cold to sleep in his underthings, but Bumblebee was quick to retrieve clean clothes from the drawer beneath his bed. The long-sleeved shirt and pants were made from fleece, and they were soft to the touch.

When Sam was finally dressed again, Bumblebee helped him slide beneath the blankets. The mattress was made of an unfamiliar material—it was thick and dense, like memory foam, but there was less give to it. The bedclothes were layered, from sheets to quilts to heavy comforters. The top-most blanket was the one from his bed at Diego Garcia. He closed his eyes, burying his nose in the soft fabric and breathing deeply. The familiar smell was a barb and a balm, simultaneously.

When he was settled, Bumblebee’s holoform slid into bed beside him, lying between Sam and the room. He arranged Sam’s body until he was pressed against the holoform’s side, his head resting in the dip of his shoulder. Then, he pulled the blankets up to their chests and pressed a gentle kiss against Sam’s forehead.

“Close your eyes.” He murmured, “You’re exhausted. Things will seem better after you've slept.”

At the same time, Bumblebee folded down into his alt mode before he rolled forward and positioned himself against bedside. The mattress was at a height that allowed Sam to look through the passenger window and out the other side. He stared at the Camaro for a long time, blinking tired, dry eyes, before he listened to Bumblebee’s advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** I have a crazy work week coming up, so no promises on when the next chapter will be posted. I'll do my best!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** I know I said that it would be awhile before I had this chapter ready, but I couldn't stop myself! I loved writing every single word! :D

Sam slept for a long while, undisturbed by nightmares or the sounds of an unfamiliar place. When he finally awoke, slowly and reluctantly, it was to the feeling of Bumblebee’s fingers carding through his hair. The touch was gentle and familiar, and Sam made a soft sound in response.

Bumblebee continued combing his fingers through Sam’s short curls as he pressed a kiss against the crown of his head. “Good morning.”

“We’re in space.” Sam grumbled, shifting forward to push his face into the crook of the holoform’s neck, “There’s no such thing as morning.”

He could feel Bumblebee’s amusement swelling across their bond. “The _Ark_ operates on a two-shift cycle. The first shift just began.”

Sam was warm and comfortable and half-asleep, which was the only reason why he asked, “How long is each shift?”

“Sixteen hours.” Bumblebee replied, giving Sam’s curls a gentle tug, “Cybertron’s planetary rotation takes thirty-two hours.”

The mention of Cybertron brought with it all the memories of the last three days. Sam’s breath shuddered out of him as he finally lifted his head, staring around their quarters. The overhead lights had been turned off sometime during the night cycle, plunging the room into shadow. The only illumination came from an emergency light located above the door, which cast an orange-red glow across the room. Bumblebee was still parked beside the bed in his alt-mode, and he looked almost golden brown in the low light.

“How are you feeling?” Bumblebee asked, softly.

Sam settled his head back against the holoform’s chest as he considered his response. He felt less raw and jagged—less like he was going to fall apart at any moment. Still, the rest had done nothing to alleviate the hallow ache inside his chest. It was as though homesickness and grief had carved him out and taken root behind his sternum.

“Alright, I guess.” He murmured, “How long was I asleep?”

“Almost ten hours.” Bumblebee replied, sliding his hand down to cup the side of Sam’s face, “You needed it.”

Sam snorted and batted his hand away. “I’m guessing I have Ratchet to thank for that.”

The Creator bond was still and quiet, but he could distantly feel Ratchet’s presence. The medic did not seem to be paying much attention to him, but Sam knew better than to underestimate Ratchet’s ability to multitask.

 _Or stomp all over personal boundaries._ He thought, snidely.

The thought did not garner any reaction from the wizened glow inside his mind, and Sam huffed in irritation. Ratchet rarely interfered with his sleeping, but he was unrepentant whenever he did so.

Bumblebee brushed a feather-soft kiss against his temple. “He only wanted to help.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam grumbled, pulling the blankets up around his ears, “What’s the temperature? It’s freezing in here.”

“It’s nine degrees Celsius.” Bumblebee replied apologetically, “The temperature will fluctuate between five and ten degrees, unless there’s something wrong with the environmental unit.”

Sam made a disapproving sound in the back of his throat. “I should have packed a space heater.”

Bumblebee chuckled at him. “It wouldn’t help. There’s too little insulation.”

Sam frowned faintly at that. The temperature onboard the _Nemesis_ had been one of the worst parts of his captivity. He had been cold all the time, sometimes until his body ached from it. He wasn’t looking forward to a repeat experience.

“You have plenty of cold-weather clothing.” Bumblebee assured him, “You’ll be comfortable.”

Sam didn’t trust himself to reply, and so he said nothing at all. He shifted forward, wrapping a leg over Bumblebee’s thighs and pressing against him. The holoform didn’t emit body heat like a human being, but he was warmer than the ambient temperature in the room, which was a definite plus.

He could feel the swell of Bumblebee’s fond amusement across their bond-space. Evidentially, the scout had been following his train of thought.

“I’m serious.” Sam murmured into simulated skin, “If it gets much colder, I’ll be sleeping in your cab.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You’re perfectly warm and you know it.” Bumblebee chuckled.

It _was_ warm beneath the blankets and comforters and fleece pajamas, Sam would concede, but the rest of the ship was another matter entirely.

“I’m not being dramatic—I’m being _organic._ ” Sam grumbled in reply.

There was the sound of shifting metal and rotating components, and then Bumblebee was crouching down beside the bed in his bipedal mode.

“Yes Sam, I know.” He said fondly, “And speaking of which, you haven’t eaten in seventeen hours. You should get up.”

Sam sighed softly. He hadn’t noticed his hunger the night before, distracted as he was by his grief, but now his stomach was grumbling. He briefly considered lying back down and putting it off, but Bumblebee just quirked a brow ridge at the same time his holoform yanked the blankets aside. The rush of cold air was entirely unwelcome, and Sam shouted a protest as he reached for the covers.

“Get up.” The holoform said, twitching the blankets further away, “The sooner you get dressed, the sooner you’ll be warm again.”

Recognizing the unyielding tone of his voice, Sam scrambled off the bed and pulled open the drawer beneath the mattress. He was met with tidy rows of clothing, including pants, short-sleeved shirts, long-sleeved shirts, sweaters, and underthings. The sight of the boxers, fresh out of the package and folded neatly in piles, gave him a strange turn, but he was too cold to comment on it. Instead, he grabbed the first warm things he found and started getting undressed.

“Traitor.” Sam grumbled through chattering teeth, “ _Sadist_.”

Sam yanked the nightshirt off over his head, before pulling on a long-sleeved Henley. He repeated the process with his pants, and then he slipped into a cable-knit, high-necked infantry sweater. The material was thick and woollen, and Sam fastened the buttons with a twist of his wrist. When he finished, Bumblebee handed him a pair of socks and his shoes. Sam sat on the edge of the bed long enough to pull them on, and then he combed his fingers through his hair.

“I’m getting you back for that.” He promised.

Bumblebee whistled an approximation of Scooby-Doo’s _ruh-oh_ soundbite, and then he initiated his transformation sequence. Sam gave him a pointed look as he shifted from bipedal to alt mode, and when the transformation was complete, he slid off the bed. Bumblebee opened his driver’s side door as he approached, and Sam climbed into the seat without hesitation. The vents on the dashboard were already on, blowing warm air into the cabin.

Sam’s lips twitched up in a fond smile. “Yeah, alright, you’re forgiven.”

Bumblebee _chirruped_ at him as he rolled towards the door, which slid open of its own accord. They made their way down the corridor, but rather than turning in the direction of the mess hall, as Sam had expected, Bumblebee pulled through a set of double-wide doors at the end of the hall. It only took Sam a second to realize where they were.

 _The wash racks_.

The room was not dissimilar in design to the wash racks in North Quad. There were nozzles of varying heights and sizes set against one wall, and a broad cabinet bolted to another. Unlike the North Quad, however, there was a tall partition cordoning off one corner of the room. Bumblebee drove towards it, and Sam saw that it was outfitted with a human-sized entrance.

The Camaro pulled to a stop in front of the partition and popped open the driver’s side door. “Go on.”

Sam climbed out of the cabin and pushed open the door with his fingertips. The space within would not have looked out of place in a locker room. There was a bathroom stall in one corner and an open-air shower in the other. A sink stood between them, and a tall cabinet was affixed to the wall on his right.

Sam stared around the space in a mixture of surprise and disbelief, before he ambled over towards the cabinet. A cursory examination revealed an assortment of bath linens, toiletries, and toilet paper within. He stared at the items for a long time, before he asked, faintly, “Who bought all of this stuff?”

“Carter and I purchased your clothing and toiletries.” Bumblebee’s disembodied voice replied.

The clear, plastic bottles contained an assortment of gels and liquids identified only by a plain label. Sam reached out, pushing aside a bottle stamped _shampoo and conditioner_ to look at the others. There was one bottle for body wash, another for body lotion, and a third for mouthwash.

“We have stored your toiletries in bulk.” Bumblebee said, answering his unspoken question, “You can refill the bottles when they’re empty.”

Sam slowly shut the cabinet doors, and then he ambled across the space. The sink looked like something out of an airplane lavatory, complete with a paper towel dispenser affixed to the wall and a waste chute with a flap on the counter. He walked passed the sink towards the bathroom stall and, upon pushing open the door, found a standard two-piece toilet. The sight of the plumbing fixture hit Sam unexpectedly hard—he had been expecting the waste disposal system from the _Nemesis_ or something equally alien. 

Sam stared around the space for a long moment, feeling precariously unbalanced. Eventually, his physical needs made themselves felt, and Sam went about his morning ablutions as quickly as possible—the toilet seat and the tap water were positively _frigid_. When he finished, he left the makeshift bathroom and climbed back into Bumblebee’s cabin.

“There are wash racks on the third and fourth decks that have also been outfitted with lavatory facilities, and there is a washroom in Ratchet’s medical bay.” Bumblebee helpfully supplied as they accelerated out of the room, “He insisted.”

Sam was silent for the time it took them to drive back into the corridor, and then he asked, “How much water did you guys store?”

Bumblebee slowed as he turned down the T-junction in the direction of the mess hall. “Approximately 30,000 gallons.”

Sam frowned faintly, trying to do the mental math, but Bumblebee answered his question before he could voice it. “The average person uses 100 gallons of water a day—most of it on bathing and waste elimination. The _Ark_ has a filtration system that will recycle water in 1000-gallon intervals. The remaining volume accounts for perspiration, evaporation, and emergency supply.”

Sam’s brow furrowed as he took in the information. “I guess Ratchet wasn’t exaggerating when he said you guys thought of everything.”

Bumblebee _chir-chir-chirred_ in laughter as he pulled into the mess hall. The room was largely the same as it had been the night before, with one significant exception—Hot Rod, Cliffjumper, Bluestreak, and two unfamiliar mechanoids were sitting at the trestle table in the center of the room. The five mechanoids turned as they entered, and Sam could see several containers of energon resting on the table between them.

Bumblebee rolled across the room and came to a stop near the kitchenette. Sam took a deep, fortifying breath, and then he opened the door and climbed out of the car.

“Good morning, Sam.” Cliffjumper rumbled, inclining his head.

“Morning, Cliff.” Sam replied with a half-smile as Bumblebee pulled the door shut behind him and initiated his transformation sequence.

“Hey, short-stack. How’s it hanging?” Hot Rod asked, smirking at him over the rim of an energon container.

“I told you to stop calling me that.” Sam grumbled without any heat. He had long since given up on dissuading Hot Rod from referring to him in diminutives.

Bumblebee gave Hot Rod a cool look, before crouching down beside Sam and gesturing towards the counter. “Take a look.”

Sam was curious, despite himself, and he ambled over towards the kitchenette. It was similar in design to the kitchenette in Dave Carter’s apartment. There was a long row of solid-looking cupboards arranged over a countertop, which included a deep sink and a dishwasher. Sam pulled open one cupboard and then another to reveal dry goods in airtight storage containers. As with the toiletries, each container was marked with a simple label denoting its contents. Sam scanned the labels, relief mounting with each one—there was an assortment of cereals, oatmeal, granola, crackers, and trail mix. None of it seemed to require anything other than a cup of water and a microwave.

“I thought I was going to be eating MREs and rations this entire time.” Sam murmured.

“Of course not.” Bumblebee replied, before gesturing towards a storage unit against the wall, “Open that.”

The container looked like a blend between a refrigerator and a filing cabinet. Sam reached out, clasping the handle and pulling it open. He was met with the sight of tidy rows of cartons stacked on four different shelves. He leaned forward, pulling out a carton at random and read the label: _Chicken Lo Mein._

Sam looked from the package to Bumblebee, a grin spreading across his face. “Are you serious?”

Bumblebee’s antenna perked up in obvious pleasure. “Absolutely.”

Sam turned back around and pulled another carton out of the fridge (“ _Beef fried rice_ ”) and another ( _“Chicken pot pie”_ ). He grinned from ear to ear as he glanced at Bumblebee over his shoulder.

“I can’t believe it.” He laughed, “I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. I love chicken pot pie.”

Bumblebee’s expression was very soft as he replied, “It’s your grandmother’s.”

Sam stiffened from head to toe, his heart suddenly palpating in his chest. “…What?”

“The chicken pot pie—your grandmother made it.” Bumblebee slowly replied, “She made a great deal of food for you.”

Sam gripped the package so tightly that the tendons in his hands ached. “When?”

Bumblebee’s expression sharpened with concern, and he shuffled forward a half-step into Sam’s personal space.

“Ratchet told her that we could flash-freeze any food she made, and she’s been preparing meals ever since.” Bumblebee replied, his wing flaps fluttering with concern, “Are you alright? I can put them in storage, if you would prefer.”

“No!” Sam choked out, clutching the container to his chest. His voice sounded strangled and pained, even to his own ears. He swallowed against the emotion thickening his throat, and tried again, “No thank-you. It was a surprise, that’s all.”

Bumblebee’s expression was inscrutable but intense. “Are you sure?”

Sam nodded emphatically. “Yes, I’m sure. How do I cook this? I’ll have it for breakfast.”

Bumblebee stared at him for a moment longer, as though trying to determine whether he was actually all right, before he gestured towards the counter. “You just put it in the—“

The scout broke off, a perplexed expression on his faceplates. Sam followed his line of sight, looking first at the empty countertop and then up at Bumblebee’s face.

“Put it in the what?” He asked, confusedly.

Bumblebee stared at the empty countertop in obvious bafflement. “We installed a microwave for you. It should be right there.”

The moment stretched on for another beat, and then someone politely cleared their intakes behind them. Sam and Bumblebee turned around in unison to find the five mechanoids watching them with undisguised interest. The noise had come from one of the strangers, a green and black war-build with jagged-looking vambraces.

“Forgive my interruption.” He rumbled in a smooth, cultured accent, “I believe I know the whereabouts of your equipment—it will be returned shortly. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Bumblebee canted his head at the same time Bluestreak leaned forward, eager energy in every line of his frame, “Sam, please allow me to introduce Crosshairs, our weapon’s supervisor and targetmaster. I told you about him once, do you remember? We haven’t seen each other since the _Ark-27_ , and I recently learned that he was selected for Sentinel Prime’s excursion into Dark Space. Isn’t that marvellous? Pinpointer was chosen to go with him—that’s him, sitting there. They’re partners. He’s not particularly talkative, well, not like me, I mean. Crosshairs can pick-up your training where I left off. He’s a gunner and a sniper in his own right, although he would rather maintain a weapon than fire one. I guess that’s the biggest difference between Crosshairs and Ironhide.”

Sam stared at him the entire time Bluestreak rambled, waiting for a chance to get a word in edge-wise. When he finally finished speaking, Sam gave a wan smile.

“It’s nice to meet you both.”

Crosshairs respectfully inclined his helm. “It is an honor to serve, Prime.”

Sam flushed at the targetmaster’s formal tone and demeanour. He turned around, in an effort to disguise his discomfort, and opened the refrigeration unit. He placed the chicken pot pie back on the shelf, before pushing the door shut again.

“I guess I’ll have some cereal.” Sam muttered.

Bumblebee whistled at him softly, and Sam made his way over to the counter. He opened up one cupboard and then another as he took down a container and a bowl. When he went to put the cereal back in its place, he caught sight of a small canister on the bottom shelf. He reached out, pushing aside a jar of iodized salt and then grinning from ear to ear.

_Veranda Blend Light Roast._

“Are you kidding me?” Sam asked, pulling down the container and turning to look at Bumblebee, “You brought me _coffee_?”

Bumblebee’s optics brightened in amusement, but it was Hot Rod who answered him.

“Of course we did.” He laughed, “Taking you half-way across the galaxy without caffeine would be cruel and unusual punishment.”

Sam grinned appreciatively. “Thanks, guys.”

“...For us.” Hot Rod added with a shit-eating grin.

Sam rolled his eyes as he turned around, searching for a coffee maker. He found it in a cupboard beneath the counter and, after fiddling with the outlet adapter, he plugged it in and filled it up. He picked up his bowl and started eating while he waited for the water to boil. There wasn’t any milk, so he had to eat the cereal dry, but it didn’t matter to him either way.

He briefly glanced over his shoulder as he spooned up some more Cheerios, only to pause. Crosshairs and Pinpointer were watching him with a scrutiny that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“What?” He asked.

Crosshairs regarded him for a moment longer, before he inclined his helm. “It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable. I have been informed that humans dislike prolonged observation.”

“…What?” Sam repeated, dumbly.

“It’s rude to stare.” Hot Rod drawled, giving Crosshairs a pointed look.

“Yes, quite.” He agreed, before turning to look at Sam, “Forgive my indiscretion.”

Sam felt a flush spread across his face, pinkening his cheeks. “It’s fine.”

Crosshairs inclined his head in response, and although he was no longer staring, Sam could feel the weight of his scrutiny. He turned around, finishing the rest of his cereal just as the coffee started percolating. He pulled sugar and powdered creamer out of the cupboard, adding them both to his mug. It turned the steaming liquid a golden caramel color. He tidied up the kitchenette as the coffee finished percolating, and then he picked up the mug.

He turned around, blowing across the steaming liquid, only to realize that Crosshairs was studiously _not_ looking at him. The fact served to irritate him and he asked, tartly, “Oh my god, what _is_ it?”

The targetmaster’s optics found his in an instant, his expression one of shocked surprise. “You would blaspheme?”

Sam stared at him for a long moment, gobsmacked, before he shook his head. “Yeah, no, I’m not doing this. Bumblebee?”

His bonded was watching him with bright optics, and as soon as Sam turned towards him, he initiated his transformation sequence. Sam took a deep drink of his scalding coffee, pouring the rest down the drain and leaving the mug in the sink. He was in the process of climbing into Bumblebee’s cabin when he heard Hot Rod ask, sarcastically, “Did you even decompress the data packet?”

Bumblebee accelerated out of the mess hall in silence. They were halfway down the corridor before he asked, tentatively, “Are you alright?”

Sam crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “I’m fine. I’d be even better if people would stop asking me that.”

Bumblebee was silent for another hundred yards or so, and then he brushed against Sam’s mind. “Would you like to see the bridge?”

Sam frowned faintly as he glanced down at the dashboard. “Why would I?”

Bumblebee’s mental presence pressed close, brightening with _encouragement_ and _anticipation_. “The bridge is the _Ark’s_ crowning glory. It’s also where I’ll be stationed while I’m on duty.”

Sam canted his head in surprise. Bumblebee was usually stationed in the communications array whenever he wasn’t on patrol or standing sentry. He had assumed the scout would be chained to a desk somewhere in the depths of the ship, not stationed on the bridge itself.

“Am I even allowed?” He asked, curiously.

His question was met with a swell of dry humor. “Yes, Prime, you are allowed on the bridge.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Thanks smart-ass.”

Bumblebee _chirruped_ something merry-sounding in Cybertronian as they continued down the corridor. Doors flashed by on either side of them, interspersed with the occasional work terminal or digital interface screen. They were almost to the atrium when Sam noticed an enormous hangar door that had been painted with a dark red “X” across its full width. He twisted in his seat, trying to get a better look as they passed, and his curiosity was met with Bumblebee’s amusement.

“It’s the science laboratory.” He explained.

Sam turned back around to look at the dashboard. “Wheeljack’s lab?”

“Yes and no.” Bumblebee replied, slowing down as he rolled into the atrium, “As the Chief Science Officer, Wheeljack oversees a number of tasks assigned by the command crew, but it is not his lab. That’s located on the fifth floor, near the shield generators.”

There was something wry about his tone that told Sam the location wasn’t a coincidence. His lips twitched in amusement as Bumblebee turned onto the first deck. Unlike the fourth and second decks, the first deck had walls of brushed gold, which contrasted against the Autobot-blue accents that ran from floor to ceiling in even intervals. The doors were different here as well—solid copper with long, geometric windows that provided a glimpse into each room they passed. Sam peered through the windshield, trying to take it all in. The color scheme, accents, and architectural design all combined to suggest an air of solemn dignity.

Sam could feel Bumblebee’s answering swell of _pride_ across their bond-space.

“The _Ark_ is the crown jewel of Iacon’s armada. She was built at the end of the last Golden Age, and they spared no expense.” He murmured.

Sam smiled faintly and pressed a hand flat against the steering wheel. “It’s very nice.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Bumblebee promised, slowing down to a stop about halfway down the corridor. The driver’s side door swung open, and Sam obliged him by climbing out of the cab. There was a large door on one side of the corridor, in the same copper design as the others, and a deep red Autobot emblem emblazoned on the opposite wall. Bumblebee backed up several paces and then he transformed, a rapid-fire explosion of metal and moving parts. When he finished, the scout stepped up to the doors and activated the control panel. The smooth, copper barrier slid aside with an audible _snickt_ , revealing a long ramp that angled upwards. The gold-colored metal was interspersed with glowing blue strips set at even intervals.

Sam slowly turned to look at Bumblebee. The scout was regarding him with a mixture of affection and encouragement, and he gestured inside with a wave of his servo. Sam turned his head to stare up the long ramp, before his curiosity spurred him forward. There was a narrow landing and a second door at the top of the ramp, which slid aside of its own accord as they approached. Sam hesitantly stepped through the doorway—and then he pulled up short.

[[The bridge]](https://www.artstation.com/artwork/45qeY) was both breathtakingly beautiful and alien in design. The doorway opened onto the first of three levels. There was a large workstation on either side of the entryway—Kup sat at one, Ironhide at the other. Sam slowly walked into the room, eyes skipping across the glowing terminals, the gold-colored metal, and azure-blue accents. It seemed too much to take in, all at once.

There was a large chair at the edge of the landing, and it turned around as Sam approached. He tore his eyes away from the view-screen at the front of the bridge, which provided an unobstructed view of space, to look up into Optimus’ face. The Supreme Commander was watching him with soft optics.

“Hello Sam.” He murmured, pushing to his pedes, “Welcome to the bridge.”

Sam huffed a shaky laugh in reply. “Hey Optimus. It’s really something.”

The former Autobot leader smiled at him, an affectionate twitch of his mouthplates, before gesturing around them, “May I escort you?”

Sam laughed again, a little livelier this time, “Yeah. That’d be great.”

Optimus inclined his helm, before he half-turned and waved a servo towards the two workstations behind them. “This is the engineering node and this is tactical. We can operate all functions of the engine room, defensive systems, and internal security from these workstations.”

Kup glanced down as Optimus was speaking, making eye contact with Sam. The old mechanoid spiralled one optic down to a point in a reasonable facsimile of a wink. The grin was on Sam’s face before he could stop it.

“The second level is communications and navigation.” Optimus rumbled as moved to stand on the edge of the landing, looking out over the lower portions of the bridge. He gestured towards the work terminal located on the right of the stairs, which was currently occupied by Arcee, “This is Bumblebee’s station.”

Sam turned, looking up at his bonded with a smile. “That’s really cool, Bee. What do you do?”

Bumblebee _chirred_ at him as he replied, “I monitor ship-wide communications, as well as all known external frequencies.”

Sam tilted his head, curiously. “How many are there?”

“Tens of thousands.” Bumblebee replied wryly, “There’s good reason why I cannot utilize my holoform while I’m on duty.”

Optimus extended his arm towards the second-level, and Sam started down the polished ramp at his urging. The sound of his footsteps was lost beneath the ringing of pedes against metal as Bumblebee and Optimus followed behind him. As he stepped onto the lower level, he realized there was another workstation directly beneath the Command Chair. Prowl was currently occupying the seat, and his servos were flying across the control panel in front of him.

“Operations.” Optimus explained, “It is manned by Prowl or Jazz.”

Sam craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse of what Prowl was working on, when the third-in-command turned to look at him.

“You may observe, if you wish.” Prowl rumbled, his servos darting over the control panel.

Sam gave the strategist a hesitant smile. “Thanks, Prowl, but I wouldn’t want to disturb you.”

The black and white mechanoid shook his helm. “It is not an imposition.”

Bumblebee gave him an encouraging nod, and Sam slowly made his way around the curving partition to look up at the workstation. The monitors were scrolling through Cybertronian glyphs almost too quickly for Sam to see. There seemed to be dozens of different read-outs, but he couldn’t make heads or tails of them.

“Looks complicated.” He said.

“It is detailed, not complicated.” Prowl corrected him.

Sam gave the third-in-command a dubious look. “Agree to disagree.”

“You are inexperienced.” Prowl replied, matter-of-factly, “Familiarity will come in time.”

There was something easy and accepting about his tone, as though Sam’s ability to become accustomed to life on the battleship was a foregone conclusion, that made him feel appreciative and resentful in equal measures. He stared at the read-outs a while longer, before murmuring his thanks and walking back to the main portion of the second level. The walkway provided a view of the lowest level, which contained a single workstation. Hound was sitting in front of it, but he had twisted in his seat to smile up at him.

“Hey Hound.” Sam said, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth, “What’re you doing?”

“Interstellar cartography.” Hound replied, giving his console an affectionate pat, “Looking for hazards. You know how it is—anything that might ruin our day.”

Sam’s eyebrows drew up in surprised interest. “Really? That’s so cool.”

Hound grinned at him as he swung his chair aside. “Come and see.”

Sam glanced up at Optimus, searching for permission, and when the older Prime inclined his helm, he made his way down into the lower level. Hound’s workstation was large, and it was currently displaying a two-dimensional representation of space. Their position was denoted by a glowing red dot in the center of the screen, and there was all manner of symbols and hash marks surrounding it.

“What does that mean?” Sam asked, curiously.

“That is an asteroid belt.” Hound replied, gesturing towards a long hatched line, “This is a radiation pocket and that little beauty—“ He punctuated his words by jabbing at a glowing red glyph, “—is a gravity well.”

Sam stepped forward, peering at the glyph, which was blinking in steady intervals. “Is it dangerous?”

“Oh, heavens yes.” Hound agreed cheerfully, “We’d all be crushed to death if we came within a trillion kilometers of it.”

Sam was barely paying attention to the neural-network, which is why he was taken by surprise by the directionless swell of _exasperation_ and _irritation_ as Hound finished speaking. The sentry twisted in his seat, staring at the other occupants of the bridge in confusion.

“What? It’s true.” As an afterthought, he angled his helm to look at Sam and said, as though to reassure him, “Don’t worry. The gravitational forces would tear the ship apart before we got anywhere near the event horizon.”

“Thank-you, Hound.” Optimus rumbled dryly.

The sentry evidentially understood the words for the dismissal they were, for he _clickety-blatted_ something respectful-sounding in Prime’s direction, before turning back around in his chair.

Sam pushed his hands in his pockets, turning to look at the full expanse of the bridge. It was remarkably beautiful and alien—he was surprised to realize that he loved it.

“What do you think of the view?” Bumblebee asked, crouching down beside him.

Sam angled his head to look at the curved view-screen, which extended above and around them. The sky was inky blank, with only the occasional pinprick of light in the darkness.

“What view?” He asked dryly.

Bumblebee lifted his head to look at Optimus, who rumbled something to Prowl. A moment later, the lights on the bridge dimmed and then vanished. Sam reached out, steadying himself against Bumblebee, but it took only a few moments for his eyes to adjust. The view was [[indescribable]](https://imgix.mic.com/mic/limlcdiqjqtg6dstvrreoly113tefmzyqkekymnzdijjwssk6cm3l09khp6anczw.jpg?w=646&fit=max&auto=format%2Ccompress)—there was a glowing node directly in front of them, casting wan light across the bow of the ship. It was intersected by a ribbon of interstellar dust and debris from one end to the other. Sam’s feet carried him forward of their own accord until he was standing directly in front of the view-screen.

“It’s incredible.” He whispered, unable to prevent the catch in his voice, “What is it?”

“Teletraan-One?” Optimus rumbled in reply.

Sam half-turned, opening to his mouth to ask whether that was an answer or a question, when a smooth, metallic voice interrupted him.

“ESO 510-G13 is an edge-on galaxy located over a half-a-trillion kilometers away in the Hydra Cluster. Its unusual warped disc structure is the result of a recent collision with a nearby galaxy.”

Sam startled in surprise—the voice seemed to be coming from all around him.

“What the… _What_?” He spluttered.

Optimus rumbled at him in amusement as the lights came up to half-brightness.

“Sam, this is Teletraan-One, the artificial intelligence that runs the _Ark’s_ on-board operations.”

Sam turned around, looking for a monitor or speaker or any indication of the voice’s source, but he couldn’t find anything. Optimus smiled down at him, evidentially understanding his confusion.

“Introduce yourself.” He suggested.

Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and then he hesitantly ventured, “Hello Teletraan-One.”

There was an audible chiming sound, and then the smooth, metallic voice replied, “Voice identification confirmed—Samuel James Witwicky Prime.”

Sam glanced over at Bumblebee, his brow furrowed in confusion, “What does it do?”

“Anything we require.” His bonded replied amusedly, “It is a semi-sentient computer system that runs the _Ark_ and its onboard operations, in addition to monitoring frequencies from deep space.”

Sam gave his bonded a skeptical look. “Are you telling me that you guys invented JARVIS?”

Bumblebee’s optics brightened in response as Hound _chirruped_ with laughter.

“Ask it something.” Bee urged.

Sam frowned faintly in response. “Like what?”

“Anything.” He replied with a smile.

Sam hesitated for a long while, before he asked, “What’s the nearest planet with organic life?”

There was a beat of silence, and then Teletraan-One was replying, “EP-21-220 is located less than three billion kilometers away. The planet contains a simple phylum of prokaryotic cells.”

“That’s unbelievable.” Sam breathed in amazement.

“Teletraan-One can be accessed from anywhere on the ship.” Optimus intoned solemnly, “You need only ask for him.”

Sam turned, staring out the view-screen at the dark expanse of space. The side-on galaxy was harder to see with the lights at half-brightness, but the stars were easily visible. He raised a hand, pressing against the curved window—the transparent material was cool to the touch.

“Thank-you for showing me.” He murmured.

“You are welcome here at any time, Sam.” Optimus rumbled in reply. “Would you like to stay?”

Sam’s mouth had gone dry at the sheer force of his emotions—wonder, disbelief, joy, and sorrow, all twisted up on one another—and he had to wet his lips before he could reply.

“Yeah, maybe.” He managed, “For a little while.”

Optimus’ expression was understanding and fond as he inclined his helm, before turning and making his way back towards the Command Chair. Sam watched him go for a brief moment, and then he turned back towards the view-screen. Bumblebee crouched down by his side as he stared out into space, offering affection and support without ever saying a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The picture of the ESO galaxy in this chapter is one of the few unaltered pictures taken of space. Most photographs are infrared or they're color enhanced. That picture is, for all intents and purposes, exactly what Sam would have seen with his naked eye.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thanks for your support!

Sam spent the next few hours sitting on the floor of the bridge, staring out at the stars. The view-screen curved around and above him, providing an unobstructed view of space. Bumblebee stayed by his side for the first half-hour or so, but Arcee asked for him shortly thereafter. He stood, brushing against Sam’s mind in farewell as he made his way over to the communications workstation. Sam watched him go for a long moment, before turning back towards the view-screen. It was easier to see the stars here, at the front of the bridge, and his eyes skipped across the darkness. It looked nothing like the night’s sky above Diego Garcia or Nevada or California. It was entirely other—entirely _alien_.

The thought made Sam shiver, despite the warmth radiating from the terminal behind him, and he drew his knees up to his chest. He stared out the view-screen for a while longer, before an odd glint caught his eye. He frowned, leaning forward to squint into the darkness.

“What’s that?” He asked.

Hound stuck his head over the workstation, whistling at him in confusion.

“What’s what?”

Sam nodded towards the view-screen. “That.”

Hound raised his head, following Sam’s line of sight. He was silent for a long moment, before whistling in comprehension.

“Ah, yes.” He chirruped, “That is the _Lost Light._ ”

Sam turned, angling his head up to look at the sentry. “Why are they so far away?”

Hound tilted his helm in obvious puzzlement. “They are less than ten thousand kilometers off our starboard bow.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Jolt, who had arrived to relieve Mirage at navigation, whistled in amusement. “We are in deep space, Sam. Ten thousand kilometers is practically on top of one another.”

Sam gave the shock trooper a wry look, before turning around to settle against the workstation. The _Lost Light_ glimmered in the distance, barely visible against the darkness. He sat there for a long while as the bridge crew carried on their work. Jolt and Arcee called across the floor to one another, relaying coordinates and frequencies. Hound hummed to himself as he drummed a steady tempo against his console. Occasionally, one of the workstations would emit a sharp tonal beeping or a whistle similar to a bosun's call. The first time it happened, Sam nearly jumped out of his skin—it wasn’t terrible loud, but it was piercing. By the third or fourth time it happened, however, he had become accustomed to the noise.

Eventually, Sam’s backside began to ache from sitting on the cold, metal floor. He groaned, clambering to his feet and stretching his arms above his head. The motion caused his spine to audibly crack, which caused Hound to _chirrup_ in alarm.

Sam couldn’t help the half-smile that turned up the corner of his mouth. “You should hear what I can do with my knuckles.”

“I would rather not.” Hound replied, doubtfully.

Sam huffed a laugh as he walked around the workstation to look at Hound’s console. It seemed unchanged from the last time he had seen it—the red dot that denoted the ship was still blinking from the center of the screen, surrounded by all manner of glyphs and symbols. He stepped closer, tilting his head as he stared up at the display. There was a second red dot to the right of the _Ark_ and a third trailing behind it.

“Is that the _Lost Light_?” Sam asked, curiously.

“It is.” Hound agreed, before anticipating Sam’s next question, “And that is the _Nemesis_.”

Sam stared at the blinking red dot in surprise. “I wasn’t sure whether Starscream and the others would come with us.”

“He has made his feelings on the subject perfectly clear.” Ratchet cut in, dryly.

Sam turned to see the Chief Medical Officer lumbering down the ramp onto the second-level of the bridge. His footsteps rang against the polished metal floor, growing louder as he approached.

“Oh?” Sam asked, “He’s not happy, I take it?”

Ratchet ex-vented a sharp snort as he came to a stop near Hound’s terminal. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Sam folded his arms loosely over his chest and peered up at the old medic. “What’s he mad about, exactly?”

Ratchet gestured vaguely but meaningfully to their surroundings. “Sentinel Prime’s return, the defeat of the remaining Decepticons, his impending demotion—take your pick.”

Sam tilted his head to the side. “His demotion?”

“The appointment of Lord High Protector is at the discretion of the Senate leader. As the senior-most Prime, that responsibility belongs to Sentinel, not to Optimus.” Ratchet rumbled.

Sam frowned faintly in response. He had never considered the implications of there being more than one Prime before—at least, not in terms of authority. He and Optimus had a relatively informal relationship, more a camaraderie than a hierarchy. He knew next to nothing about how Primes were supposed to interact with one another.

“When was the last time there was more than one Prime?” He asked, glancing up at the medic to gauge his reaction to the question.

Ratchet considered him for a long moment before replying. “That would have been the first Golden Age, during the reign of Solomus and Epistemus Prime.”

“Did they rule together?” Sam asked slowly, “Or was one subservient to the other?”

“Optimus would be better suited to discuss matters of position and power.” Ratchet replied gruffly.

Sam glanced towards the Command Chair, only to realize that Optimus had vacated the position in the hours since he had been on the bridge. In his place was a tall, broad shouldered mechanoid plated in brick red and army green. He was staring at the console in front of him with a stern, imperious air.

“Crossblades.” Ratchet supplied, as though listening to his thoughts, “Second-in-command of the _Lost Light._ ”

Sam tore his eyes away from the red and green mechanoid to look up at him. “What’s he doing here, then?”

Ratchet shrugged expressively. “This is, for all intents and purposes, an armada, and the roles and responsibilities are often shared between ships. Many of the _Lost Light’s_ crew have shift rotations on the _Ark_ and vice-versa.”

Sam digested the information for a long moment before he asked, “But not the _Nemesis_?”

The Chief Medical Officer scoffed in reply. “Starscream has refused to exchange crew or allow anyone onboard his ship.”

Sam frowned faintly as he turned to stare at the red dot that was blinking on Hound’s display. “He must be pissed. Why are they even coming with us?”

“Why else? The promise of a restored Cybertron.” Ratchet replied.

Sam’s frown deepened as he considered Ratchet’s reply. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that the Decepticons and the Autobots had an equally vested interest in the restoration of their planet—as it was easy to forget that both sides had been responsible for its destruction. After all, it had been Optimus, not Megatron, who ejected the Cube into space, potentially condemning their species to a slow death by entropy.

“Enough.” Ratchet cut in, pulling Sam out of his thoughts, “The microwave has been returned to the mess hall. It’s time you ate something more substantial than cereal.”

The medic’s tone was brisk and no-nonsense, and Sam didn’t even bother protesting.

“Who took it?” He asked instead, waving good-bye to Hound as he climbed onto the second-level of the bridge.

“A sanitation bot.” Ratchet replied, lumbering towards the ramp, “Evidentially, he mistook it for a sentient organism.”

Bumblebee was still standing at the communications terminal, one servo propped on the workstation and the other on the back of the chair. He and Arcee seemed locked in a contest of wills, for they were whisper arguing with one another over something on the monitors. Sam hesitated for a moment, not wanting to interrupt them, when Bumblebee glanced over with an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to be a while longer.” He said.

“That’s alright.” Sam replied, “I’ll see you later.”

The scout brushed against his mind, gentle and affectionate, as he turned back towards the workstation. Sam stared at him for a moment longer before a pointed look from Ratchet spurred him forward. He climbed up the ramp and onto the upper-level of the bridge as the old medic followed behind him. Crossblades turned in his seat as they approached, his expression unfathomable but intense.

“Prime.” He rumbled in greeting, “It is my honor to serve.”

His voice was deep and smooth and cultured—it seemed somehow at odds with his stern countenance and imposing stature.

“Hello Crossblades.” Sam replied, aiming for dignified and falling short, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Ratchet pressed his servo against Sam’s back, urging him forward. Sam nodded to the second-in-command in farewell, before letting himself be steered towards the exit. The double doors slid open as they approached and, as soon as they were in the antechamber, Ratchet transformed. Sam watched as the medic folded down into his alt mode before popping open the driver’s side door. He climbed into the cab without further prompting, and then Ratchet was accelerating down the corridor.

Sam leaned back in the driver’s seat, careful to keep his feet away from the pedals and his hands to himself. Doors flashed by on either side of the corridor, their interiors visible but dark through the glass windows. It was no time at all before Ratchet turned a corner and the atrium became visible at the end of the hall.

“It’s a big ship.” Sam said, apropos of nothing, “It’s going to take me forever to learn where everything is.”

Ratchet’s engine rumbled as he started down the curved ramp towards the second deck. “It is a great deal of empty space. The _Ark_ was designed for a complement of 200 mechanoids.”

Sam propped his elbow against the doorframe and rested his head on his closed fist. “Have you ever served onboard the ship before?”

“I have.” Ratchet agreed, turning down another long corridor, “Both before and after the start of the Great War.”

“Oh?” Sam asked, curiosity piqued despite himself, “Were you always the Chief Medical Officer?”

“Yes.” Ratchet replied, gruffly.

Sam was silent for several hundred yards before he asked, slowly, “Were you Megatron’s Chief Medical Officer, too?”

“For a time.” came Ratchet’s clipped reply.

The medic’s mental presence had cooled perceptibly, and Sam was familiar enough with the wizened glow to understand that he was treading on dangerous ground. He hesitated for a long moment, turning his next question over in his head, testing it, and then he asked it anyway.

“Where is he?”

Ratchet was silent as he pulled into the mess hall. The large room was empty except for a single mechanoid that was standing near the energon containers that lined the far wall. The Hummer slowed to a stop directly in front of the kitchenette, before opening his door in a silent command.

Sam didn’t move, instead pinning the dashboard with an insistent look. “Tell me, Ratch.”

“He is in the brig.” Ratchet replied at last, and each word sounded like it was being dragged from his vocoder, “Where he belongs.”

Sam slowly nodded as he turned and climbed out of the seat. As soon as he had two feet firmly on the ground, Ratchet rolled backwards and transformed. Sam watched as panels split apart at invisible seams, folding and twisting and slotting into place, and then Ratchet was crouching down in front of him.

“You needn’t waste your energy worrying about Megatron.” Ratchet said gruffly, “I have ensured it.”

The corners of Sam’s mouth turned down in a frown. “What do you mean by that?”

“I designed the firewalls that are keeping him locked in stasis.” Ratchet replied, straightening to his full height and pinning Sam with a serious look, “Megatron is incapable of breaching them.”

Sam knew that he should be comforted by his assurances, but it left him feeling a vague sense of unease. “What if someone else tried?”

Ratchet gestured meaningfully towards the kitchenette. “I have included a host of fail-safes and back-ups within the programming. His processor would be wiped clean if anyone attempted to online him.”

Sam snorted softly as he made his way towards the refrigeration unit. “Well, that would save us all a lot of trouble.”

“It would indeed.” Ratchet agreed, coolly.

Sam briefly considered the available options before he pulled the chicken pot pie out of the fridge. He pushed the door shut behind him, and then stared at the microwave. It looked like a plain old General Electric model, but there was only a single button on the control pad.

“How do I work this thing?” He asked, casting a dubious look at the Chief Medical Officer.

“You put the package in the appliance and turn it on.” Ratchet replied, all dry sarcasm, “You have a graduate degree—it should not strain your abilities.”

Sam gave the old mechanoid a pointed look. “Your tone is super helpful.”

Ratchet gave an unimpressed snort as Sam opened the microwave and placed the carton on the turntable. He pushed the door shut again and, as directed, thumbed the power button. Immediately, the microwave lit up and the carton started rotating as it cooked. The sight was so ordinary, so commonplace, that it was anachronistic in the extreme.

“How is this my life?” Sam asked, to no one in particular.

“Primus only knows.” Ratchet replied dryly.

Before Sam could reply, the microwave beeped twice and went dark. He looked from the microwave to Ratchet in confusion—it had only been on for a few seconds.

“It’s ready.” Ratchet said, correctly interpreting his confusion, “Go on.”

Sam opened the microwave and pulled out the carton, which was warm to the touch. He peeled off the plastic filament and was immediately hit with the smell of roast chicken and spices. It made his mouth flood with saliva, and he groaned in appreciation.

“I will leave you to it—I have work to do.” Ratchet said, staring down at him as Sam dug a fork out of the drawer, “You may go to the gym when you’ve finished your meal.”

Sam glanced up at the medic in confusion. “The gym?”

“I believe the term is self-explanatory.” Ratchet drawled in reply.

Sam rolled his eyes so hard they almost popped out of his skull. “Why is there a gym on the ship?”

“You will need to exercise throughout the journey to prevent muscle loss.” Ratchet replied, “It is best to begin as you mean to go on. Forty-five minutes a day, every day.”

Sam pulled a face as he sat down at the table located immediately in front of the kitchenette. Running laps or lifting weights topped the list of things he didn’t feel like doing at the moment—or anytime in the near future, really.

“I’m not in the mood.” He muttered.

“That’s unfortunate.” Ratchet replied dryly, “I imagine it will make things rather unpleasant for you.”

Sam angled his head to glare up at the chartreuse medic, who weathered his rising temper without so much as a flinch.

“Forty-five minutes.” Ratchet repeated as he started towards the exit, “Do not make me fetch you or I will be severely annoyed.”

Sam rolled his eyes again, sullen and petulant, as he started in on his dinner. The taste of chicken and gravy helped mollify his temper—it tasted as though it had just come out of the oven. He stuck his fork through the golden-brown crust and speared another piece of meat. It was tender and juicy, and his eyes fluttered shut in pleasure.

There was a sudden loud scraping sound on the opposite side of the room. Sam opened his eyes to see the unknown mechanoid wiping down one of the trestle tables. Sam tilted his head to the side, watching as he worked. He was a shorter mechanoid, perhaps Bumblebee’s height, with white plates and blue accents. Sam took another bite of his food, chewing thoughtfully as the stranger moved onto the next table. He pushed it aside, causing metal to grind against metal, and then he started cleaning.

Sam cleared his throat, pitching his voice to carry. “Hi there.”

The mechanoid startled in surprise, before turning to look at him. “Are you speaking to me?”

Sam’s lips twitched up in a smile. “Yeah, of course.”

“Oh.” The mechanoid replied, before he seemed to remember himself and straightened to attention, “How may I assist you, Prime?”

There was something earnest and uncertain about his question that made a genuine smile spread across Sam’s face.

“I just wanted to say hello. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No, Prime, we have not.” The mechanoid agreed, “My designation is Tailgate.”

“Well, hello Tailgate. My name is Sam.” He replied, “It’s nice to meet you.”

The mechanoid crossed one arm over his chest and bowed deeply at the waist. “It is an honor to serve the chosen vessel of the Allspark.”

Sam grimaced deeply, an expression that went unseen by Tailgate who had not risen from his bow. “Please, call me Sam.”

The white mechanoid glanced up, uncertainty written all over his face. “That would be inappropriate.”

His voice was confused, almost plaintive, and Sam’s expression softened into another smile.

“Well it’s my name, isn’t it?”

Tailgate seemed flustered by the question, and he straightened to his full height. “I am a sanitation bot—it is not my place to refer to you by your designation.”

Sam frowned faintly, taken aback by the casual self-deprecation.

“Hey, don’t talk like that.” He said, “Of course you can call me by my name.”

Tailgate regarded him for a long moment, clearly discomforted by the conversation. “If that is your command.”

Sam made an impatient sound in the back of his throat. “It’s not a command, it’s a request.”

“As you say, Prime.” Tailgate replied, before he quickly amended himself, “Samuel Prime.”

Sam sighed as he took another bite of his food. It was difficult to swallow the pastry around the lump that had lodged itself in his throat. He had accepted the title of Ambassador, but the Autobots had always referred to him by his name. It was discomforting to consider a lifetime of titles and formalities. It just wasn’t him.

“Is there anything else you require of me?” Tailgate asked, hesitantly.

It took a great deal of mental fortitude to lift his head and look the sanitation bot directly in the eye. “I just wanted to say hello.”

“Well, hello.” Tailgate chirped, before he gestured towards the trestle table beside him, “I will continue my work, if I have your leave to do so.”

“Go nuts.” Sam replied, tiredly.

The sanitation bot _chirruped_ an expressive string of glyphs and signifiers, and then he began wiping down the table with every evidence of enjoyment. Sam watched him for a long moment, his appetite ruined, before he stood and made his way over to the kitchenette. He shoved a few more bites of chicken into his mouth without tasting a thing, and then he threw the carton in the waste receptacle.

Thirty minutes later, he was lying on the couch in his quarters, staring at his reflection in the polished metal wall and doing his best to think of nothing.

* * *

Sam didn’t know for how long he lay there, stiff and cold and hallow-feeling, when Ratchet’s holoform appeared less than a foot away, startling him so badly that he almost fell off of the couch. After a heated—albeit one-sided—argument, he found himself in Ratchet’s front seat as the Hummer drove him to the gym. The smallish hangar was located on the same deck as his quarters, between the atrium and the mess hall. The room was empty except for a bench press, an assortment of weights, a basketball, and a skipping rope.

Ratchet seemed to correctly interpret his underwhelmed expression, for he snorted inelegantly. “The weights and callisthenic exercise will maintain your muscle mass. I also recommend adding cardio to your workout routine.”

Sam sighed to himself, before opening the driver’s side door and climbing out of the Hummer. The door snapped shut behind him of its own accord. He made his way across the floor to the bench press and started adding weights to the barbell. It was only after he finished that he noticed Ratchet had not moved from where he was parked in the middle of the room.

“You don’t need to supervise me.” Sam bit out, acidly.

“All evidence to the contrary.” Ratchet replied.

Sam’s face flushed in irritation as he swung a leg over the bench, “Fine.”

Ratchet did not respond to his clipped tone or surly demeanour, which only served to irritate Sam more. He laid down on the bench, grasping the barbell with both hands, and started counting off reps. He was feeling the burn by the time he got to fifteen and he had to settle the barbell in the catch by twenty-five. He sat up with a grunt and wiped his face with his shirt.

“I’m usually a lot better at this.” Sam muttered.

“Oxygen is thinner on the _Ark_ and the gravitational forces are six percent stronger.” Ratchet replied, “It will take time for your body to adjust.” 

“Wonderful.” Sam grumbled in reply.

Ratchet watched in silence as Sam reduced the weight by twenty pounds, and began counting off another set of reps. It was easier this time, but he was still sweating in earnest by the time he climbed off the bench He proceeded to work his way through his old routine: push-ups, squats, planks, and burpees until every muscle in his body was burning in protest. He rounded out the hour with a lazy jog around the perimeter of the room.

When he was finished, Ratchet directed him to the wash racks before he accelerated out of the hangar. Sam watched him go, his sweaty clothes clinging uncomfortably to his body. He was still hot from exercising, but he knew that he would be freezing cold before too long. That unhappy thought spurred him forward, and he quickly made his way out of the room. The corridors were empty and quiet, with nothing but the distant sound of engines to keep him company. It wasn’t long until he reached the wash racks and, with a great deal of mental fortitude, he made use of the facilities. The water was both blessedly hot and abundant, a fact for which Sam was thankful, and he stood beneath the showerhead for far longer than strictly necessary. The process of getting dried off and dressed was deeply unpleasant—the metal floor was so cold that his feet ached from the chill. He finished as quickly as he was able, and then he walked the rest of the way back to his quarters. The process of undressing was repeated as he changed from his gym clothes to loungewear, and then he climbed into bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight and Sam collapsed against it with a relieved groan.

He laid there for a long while, eyes closed and drifting, when he heard the door open. He raised his head just as Bumblebee entered the room. The Camaro was virtually silent as he rolled forward, coming to a stop a short distance away.

“I did not mean to disturb you.” Bumblebee murmured.

“You didn’t.” Sam smiled, “Joining me?”

“Briefly.” Bumblebee replied as his holoform appeared at the side of the bed, “The second shift starts in less than an hour, and I will be expected on the bridge.”

Sam shifted backwards, lifting up the blankets so the holoform could climb into bed. After some shifting about, Sam found himself curled against Bumblebee’s side with an arm wrapped around his waist. The holoform combed his fingers through Sam’s hair, before tucking a finger under his chin and angling his head up for a kiss. It was a slow, sweet press of lips—chaste and gentle.

Bumblebee pulled back far enough to murmur, “You should get something to eat before you go to sleep.”

Sam made a discontented sound as he burrowed his face into the crook of the holoform’s neck. “It’s too far—not worth it.”

“You need the calories.” Bumblebee replied, doggedly.

Sam pulled the blankets up to his chin by way of an answer. Bumblebee’s mental presence warmed with affection and concern and amusement, until Sam huffed in irritation.

“Fine.” He grumbled, “You can drop me off at the mess on your way to the bridge.”

“Thank-you.” Bumblebee murmured.

Sam grunted something that could have been interpreted as “No talking”, before he settled down against the pillows. Their combined body heat was pleasant, and it wasn’t long before he was drifting, half-asleep and comfortable. He was pulled back to himself an interminable time later as Bumblebee shifted against him. Sam squinted open his eyes to find the holoform propped up on one elbow, staring down at him.

“What is it?” Sam mumbled.

A smile spread across the holoform’s face as he threw a leg over Sam’s thighs and pushed up to straddle him. His weight pressed Sam’s hips into the bed at the same time he leaned forward, pressing his palms flat against Sam’s chest.

“I knew there was something special about you.” He murmured.

Sam stared up at the holoform in confusion. “Huh?”

“Relax, Sam.” He purred, smoothing his hands down Sam’s arms to pin his wrists to the mattress, “Just relax.”

Sam grunted in discomfort—the holoform’s grip was like iron.

“Ease up, Bee.” He complained, trying to shift his hips beneath his weight, “That hurts.”

“Does it?” Bumblebee asked, tipping his head to the side, “I seem to recall you enjoying a little pain.”

There was something about his tone of voice—lazy and teasing, the way a cat might play with a mouse—that made Sam go cold all over. He yanked at his wrists, glaring up at the holoform. “This isn’t funny. Get off me right now.”

Bumblebee smiled at him softly, before leaning down to press his lips against the shell of Sam’s ear.

“No.”

Several things happened in quick succession.

First, the holoform shivered as though it was being interrupted by television static, and then its features began to change. The jaw narrowed, lips thinned out, and eyes changed shape until it was Alice staring down at him. Sam’s heart lodged in his throat, fear and confusion slamming into him with the force of a mac truck.

In the same instant, Ratchet was in his mind—yanking him out of the nightmare and back to himself. Sam’s eyes snapped open to find himself flat on his back, with Bumblebee staring down at him in visible concern. Sam scrambled away as he looked around in desperation.

“Where— What—“ Sam panted, wide-eyed and wild, “Where did she go?”

“You were dreaming, Sam.” Bumblebee soothed, pushing onto his knees and holding up his hands, “You’re alright. Take a deep breath.”

“No!” Sam snapped, “She was here… she was _right here_!”

“There’s no one here.” Bumblebee promised, shifting towards him, “You’re safe.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the door slid open. An unknown mechanoid stood in the entryway, backlit by the lights in the corridor. Sam couldn’t make out his identity or his frame-type—he saw nothing except for the blue-green glow of an ion canon mounted to one arm. Adrenaline surged for the second time in as many minutes as the stranger snapped something in clipped Cybertronian. At the same time, Bumblebee transformed into his bipedal mode and moved to stand between Sam and the door.

The unknown mechanoid took a single step into the room, his arm-mounted canon casting eerie light across the floor. Sam didn’t think—he just reacted. He turned his attention inward, lashing out at the unfamiliar glow inside his mind with all of his mental strength. The mechanoid shrieked in surprise and pain as he stumbled backwards, and then Sam found himself pinned beneath the combined weight of Ratchet and Jazz.

 _//Sam, stop!//_ Ratchet snapped.

 _//Watch the friendly fire, kid.//_ Jazz added wryly.

Sam stared at the unknown mechanoid, who had dropped down to one knee and was ex-venting sharply. Bumblebee had not moved from his position in the middle of the room, but neither had he engaged his battle mask. The two facts seemed completely at odds with one another.

“ _What the hell is going on_?” He demanded, shrilly.

“Please forgive my intrusion.” The stranger managed, “I have… clearly… misappraised the situation.”

The mechanoid’s tone was wry and self-deprecating, which only served to confound Sam further.

“What are you talking about?”

Bumblebee turned to look at Sam, something like vexation on his face. “You were having a nightmare—neither of you realized it.”

Sam looked from Bumblebee to the stranger and back again, before understanding dawned on him. The mechanoid had thought the Pretender was real, and he was responding to the threat accordingly. Mortification came hard and fast, and Sam flushed all the way to his hairline.

“I am so sorry.” He managed, scrambling off the mattress, “Are you alright?”

The stranger cycled air through his vents for a second time, before pushing himself to his pedes. He was a smaller Autobot, perhaps eighteen feet or so, with solid red and black paneling.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He said before he chuckled, “You pack quite the punch. Kudos.”

Sam’s flushed deepened, and he wanted nothing more than to disappear into the floor. “Are you sure? Should you see Ratchet?”

The stranger waved the words away a flip of his servo. “It takes more than a pen-attack to take down a security bot. The name’s Peacemaker, by the way. It’s nice to meet you.”

Sam crossed the room to stand beside Bumblebee, who was watching the stranger with exasperation written all over his face.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” Sam replied slowly, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“It’s all good.” Peacemaker said with a slanted smile, “Besides, it’ll make a great story—Pointbreak will love it.”

Sam’s mortification was losing its sharp edges, softening to something closer to embarrassment.

“Well, thanks for understanding.” He managed.

“No problemo.” Peacemaker replied, raising two digits to his forehead in an easy salute, “It’s an honor to serve and all that.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, but before he could reply, the door slid open again. He turned in surprise—only for his stomach to sink into his feet. Jazz was standing in the corridor, his arms folded over his chest and his head tipped to the side. His expression was a mixture of humor and exasperation.

“Hey Hoss.” He said by way of greeting, “We need to have a little chat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Work continues to be bananas. I have no idea when the next update will be. Thanks for your continued patience!
> 
>  **ETA 03/08/21:** I’m still working on the next chapter. In the interim, please consider dropping by my new [[Transformers blog]](https://always-arabis.tumblr.com/) :D


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